


Home

by grumpybell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dad Kane, F/M, Minor Wells Jaha/Raven Reyes, Missing Persons, Mystery, Past and Present, Romance, Some Fluff, a tiny dash of memori, abby comes off bitchy at first & she and clarke do have problems but she's not actually bad, brotp: millamy, brotp: wellarke, minor briller, minor wellsxharper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpybell/pseuds/grumpybell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Now</b> - Clarke Griffin is reported missing on a Thursday in February, when the sky is a cold, flat grey and the air is sharp and unforgiving.</p><p><b>Two Years, Five Months Ago</b> - She meets Bellamy Blake at a party when she's fifteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Now**

Clarke Griffin is reported missing on a Thursday in February, when the sky is a cold, flat grey and the air is sharp and unforgiving. The report is placed by her mother, Dr. Abigail Griffin. The officer taking her statement can't help but note the cool, calm way she approaches the matter. It's frankly a little disturbing. Even so, no one would ever accuse Abby Griffin of having anything to do with Clarke's disappearance. The Griffins are above reproach and it's unthinkable that anyone would dare to insinuate that Dr. Griffin might be involved.

Arkadia is a small town and everyone knows Clarke Griffin, resident princess. Everyone knows who she is, but it turns out not very many people _know_ her. When the police ask her mother for a list of friends, anyone they can interview, she can only give them one name, Wells Jaha. The two had grown up together, Wells being the son of the mayor, an endless stream social events and charity parties. Clarke and Wells had a special understanding, it seemed, borne from hundreds of nights in stiff, expensive clothes, and fragile smiles.

He has more insight than her mother, and the circle of people to question widens to include Raven Reyes. Clarke, Wells, and Raven attend the same high school, which is something of a fluke. Clarke had been expelled from the local preparatory for the combined offenses of vandalizing school property, assaulting the Dean's son Cage Wallace (who claimed his balls were never the same), and refusing to follow dress code. Wells, a model student, had followed her to the local public high school, much to his father's dismay.

Raven, on the other hand, attends the public school because she's too poor to go anywhere else. She's certainly smart enough to attend the prep school on scholarship, but she'd turned up her nose at the offer. She tells the police she wouldn't want to go to a school that snobby anyway.

It's Raven who first suggests they talk to Bellamy Blake.

“He's a friend of Clarke's?” the officers had questioned, relieved there might actually be more than two people in the world who know something about Clarke Griffin.

“No. He goes to our school. He got held back a year. He's... I don't know. A loner, but I catch him watching Clarke all the time, like he can't keep his eyes off her. I brought it up to Clarke once and she shrugged it off, but she looked spooked. Clarke isn't always the easiest person to get along with, but the truth is, she didn't know anybody else well enough to piss them off. Whatever's happened to her, I doubt it happened because someone was mad at her.”

Notes are scribbled down. “So you think Bellamy Blake may have something to do with her disappearance?”

“I don't know. But I think he has a thing for her.”

Raven's account is mostly dismissed until the report comes in that the last place anyone saw Clarke was down the road from Bellamy's apartment, pulled over, the night she went missing. That, combined with Raven's words, has the police dragging Bellamy Blake into the department for questioning.

 

* * *

 

 **Two Years, Four Months Ago**  

She meets Bellamy Blake at a party when she's fifteen. Clarke isn't a big fan of parties. She grew up going to the formal type and hated them. Now she's going to the high school type and she hates those too. But Wells had wanted to come and Wells is someone that Clarke would do just about anything for. That doesn't stop her from escaping to the back porch after a couple of drinks and the requisite attempt at socializing. Clarke does not particularly consider herself a “people person.”

She's already closed the door behind her before she realizes she's not alone. She knows who Bellamy Blake _is_ , she's just never talked to him. He's sitting three steps down, halfway to the grassy backyard, a red solo cup in hand. She thinks about turning around and going back inside. The only things she knows about Bellamy is that he's a freshman like her, but sixteen, he moved to Arkadia two years ago, he's been in trouble a fair amount, and he's stupidly attractive.

Then he turns his head a little, sees her standing there, and says, “Hey.”

That makes her decision for her. Now that she can't make her retreat without seeming rude, she's determined to stay. She crosses the porch tentatively, stopping to sink down on the top step.

“Hey,” is all she can think to say back.

Bellamy angles his body a little more towards her. “Not a big fan of parties?” His eyes have enough shine to him that it's clear he's had more than one drink, but his words are steady and clean sounding.

“Not really.” Clarke wrinkles her nose, thinking about the mass of sweaty, drunken bodies inside. She hopes Wells won't want to stay too long. She hasn't always been claustrophobic, but for the last three years, crowds have been nearly panic inducing.

“Me neither.”

“Then why are you here?” Clarke asks, before she has a chance to realize that might sound rude. Her tongue gets all loose when she's had alcohol and she's not entirely sure how strong the shots she did before she came out here were. She hadn't meant to sound accusatory. It's just, she's never seen Bellamy hang out with anyone at school, so it seems unlikely he'd come for the same reasons she had (to please a friend) and Clarke can't really think of any other reason she'd be here.

Bellamy's eyebrows shoot up. “I don't know. Why are _you_ here, Princess?” There's a small touch of venom behind the nickname, but it doesn't seem to really bite. It's certainly not the first time Clarke's heard it. He downs the last of whatever was in his cup and sets it to the side, careful, like he's going to remember to take it inside to a trashcan later. It strikes her as odd, but strangely endearing.

“Wells wanted to come. I think he has a thing for Harper.” She doesn't ask him if he knows who Wells is. Everyone knows who Wells is, just like everyone knows who she is, or they think they do. They lapse into silence, and Clarke casts about for something, anything, to talk about. But she doesn't know Bellamy Blake and she doesn't know how to have a conversation with him. Wells would tell her to flirt, but Clarke doesn't have much practice with that and she isn't sure how to do it. She isn't sure if she even wants to. Bellamy is hot, but he could be a total asshole, that's how little she knows about him.

“Your turn,” is what she ends up saying.

Bellamy stands up, and for a second, she thinks he's just going to walk away. It would be pretty rude, but Clarke's honestly not sure what she would do if he did. Instead, he dusts off his pants and climbs onto the porch rail, which creaks ominously under his weight.

“I'm here,” he says, pushing up onto his tiptoes and catching hold of the roof, hoisting himself up and out of sight, “because this roof has one of the best views in Arkadia.” It's just his voice at the end, oddly disembodied with him hidden from view.

Clarke gets up and slips down the stairs to stand in the yard, where she can look up and see him. He's sitting on the roof, knees pulled up to his chest, moonlight soft on his skin. In this light, he doesn't look real, more like a dream.

“How could you possibly know that?” she asks, genuinely curious, but in a distant, unhurried sort of way. That might be the alcohol.

Bellamy grins, crooked and challenging, but not quite warm. “Come up here and I'll tell you.” It's a dare.

Clarke folds her arms over her chest. “I'm not tall enough to do that.” Her protest doesn't sound convincing even to her own ears. It's words for the sake of words.

“I'll help you.”

She never could back down from a challenge; she just wishes he hadn't figured it out so quickly. Clarke gives him a long look before striding toward the house, but by the time she's climbed up on the porch railing, white paint flaking off onto her skin, he's leaning off the side of the roof, hand out. He's stronger than he looks, hauling her up with only a little pause, and once she's caught her breath and her bearings, she realizes exactly why he'd wanted to be up here. The house is nestled on the side of a ridge, which looks out across the city, lights twinkling in the darkness.

“So how'd you know about this?” she asks, surprised by how calm she suddenly feels. The roof is warm on her bare legs and under her palms, lingering heat from the sun that's long since gone down.

“I used to live here,” he tells her, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a flask.

Clarke looks at him, startled. “With Monty?”

Bellamy shakes his head and doesn't meet her eyes. “With the family that lived here before Monty.” He fiddles with the cap of his flask for a moment, before tilting his head back and taking a long drink. Clarke watches his throat work and tries banish the guilt that's pushing at her fuzzy, calm bubble for staring and suddenly _wanting_ in a way that she can't really identify. She doesn't even know exactly what she wants.

“And where do you live now?” she asks, hoping she sounds normal.

Bellamy swallows. “The group home on Seventh Street.” There's a little hostility in his voice, like he's daring her to look down on him. Bellamy Blake is in the foster care system and used to live with a family in Monty's house, two new things she's learned about him. It doesn't seem appropriate to comment on them.

“Yeah, I guess your view was better here,” she concedes, and the side of his mouth quirks up, like he doesn't want her to see him smile. He lets out a big breath, his shoulders loosening. She hadn't even noticed the tension in his body until it was gone. Maybe it's the moonlight or the whiskey on her tongue or the companionable silence, but Bellamy Blake is suddenly fascinating. She wonders if anyone knows him.

He probably hasn't told many people about himself. They probably haven't asked. She isn't sure why Bellamy is always alone, but she's never actually seen him any other way. He seems intelligent, decently comfortable to talk to, definitely hot. He should be the sort of person who excels in high school, but he's always on the outside, hovering around the edges, quiet and uninterested.

He offers her the flask, eyebrows raised again. He's got her number, always rising to a challenge, and she's a bit annoyed by it (not enough to stop her). She takes the flask, steels herself so she's ready for whatever alcohol is inside and takes a drink. She doesn't recognize it, but Clarke's used to champagne at her mother's galas and the thousand dollar bottles of wine Wells sneaks out of his dad's wine cellar. This is something much rougher.

Bellamy's watching her, waiting to see her flinch, and it's probably only this that keeps her face impassive, has her going back in for another drink. Bellamy snorts and nabs the flask back from her before she can get a third.

“Okay, see how that settles first.” He's got a small, private smile on his lips. “That's strong stuff, Princess.” The color of his tone tells her he knows exactly what she's doing, trying to impress him a little, but it doesn't fluster her like something in the back of her mind says it should. She just feels warm, despite the September air, getting colder every night. She hadn't even dressed for the cold. Clarke is clinging to the last of summer as if her life depends on it.

Bellamy leans back on his elbows, head tipped up to the sky and Clarke gets this feeling, one she's had before, that the world is moving very slow and jerky, like a movie missing frames.

“Tell me something about yourself no one's ever bothered to ask.” She feels the words in her mouth, but doesn't think about saying them, doesn't worry that she'll come across as prying like she normally would. The alcohol is making all her edges fuzzy.

Bellamy is quiet for a few moments. “I have a sister,” he says slowly, drawing the words out like he can affect their meaning. “She's only eight. I haven't seen her in two years. I'm afraid she'll forget who I am.” It comes out like a confession, too heavy, but somehow, in the dark, in this moment, okay.

“What's her name?” It seems better to ask that than to acknowledge how haunting the words he's just offered up are. He doesn't seem like the sort of person who would take well to pity.

“Octavia.”

“Octavia,” Clarke repeats, tasting the name slowly. “Like, Mark Antony's wife?”

She thinks she catches surprise flicker over Bellamy's face, so fast she isn't sure it's there, but then he's really smiling, still small, but definitely there.

“Yeah. Augustus' sister.”

The quiet that falls between them is comfortable, gentle. She came outside to be alone and she found him and that's been better, but she isn't interested in forcing conversation. In the dark, in this moment, it's easy to just be.  
She doesn't know how long they sit there, two people looking out at the view and saying nothing at all. But it's getting colder and Clarke's fairly confident it's been long enough that she can wheedle Wells into leaving, so she puts a tentative hand on Bellamy's elbow. He doesn't flinch, only turns his head to look at her.

“I should go.” The intensity of his eyes makes her feel more intoxicated.

He insists on helping her down, which is good, since she's tipsy and pretty sure any attempts she'd made on her own would have ended in a broken bone or two.

What she doesn't count on is how close he is once she's back on solid ground, hands on her waist from where he'd lifted her and he's warm and it goes to her head a bit. It's impulsive, and Clarke is not impulsive, but it's her pushing up onto her tip toes to press her lips against his. It's brief, gentle, sweet, and by the time she's back on her heels there's a blush rising up her cheeks. She meets Bellamy's eyes and he smiles, real again, and soft. There's something behind his expression, and she wants so badly to understand it, but she doesn't know how to ask and he lets his hands fall from her waist and takes a step back. The distance between them isn't large, but it feels like an end to the evening.

“Goodnight, Princess,” he says, quiet, and that's certainly a goodbye.

“Goodnight,” Clarke breathes, and she wants to say more, extend this moment just a little longer, but she'd kissed him and things no longer have the easy quality they'd been enjoying all night, so she just climbs the stairs to the house and doesn't look back.

 

* * *

_"_ _ Send out the alarms _

_ I'm all alone _

_ Wrap me in your arms _

_ Take me home" _

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Hey loves, just a bit of exciting news before the chapter! I've got two fics nominated for Bellarke Fanfiction Awards this year! I'm incredibly honored. (This is my first year of writing Bellarke fanfic, so it's so exciting to be nominated!)
> 
> My fics that are nominated are-
> 
> [I'll Be Chasing Angels All My Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4416863/chapters/10033739) for Best Modern AU Fiction 
> 
> [Stars In The Water, Blood On Our Hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4821551/chapters/11040665) for Best Canon Fiction 
> 
> you can see the other nominees [ HERE](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/votingnomsgeneral) and you can vote in the awards [HERE](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/vote)
> 
> Please support any of the fanfiction authors/fics you love by voting! We all appreciate it! 
> 
> Okay, now about this chapter! I covered a lot of ground here (and whined to my friends about having to cover so much ground here) so we're really getting into the meat of the story now. I hope you enjoy!  
> \- - - 

 

**Now**

They bring Bellamy Blake into the station on a Saturday afternoon for questioning, just as everyone's getting back from lunch. Officer David Miller wouldn't say he _knows_ Bellamy, but he knows his son (Nate) is friends with him, had even had a crush on him for a few months before he'd met Bryan, and Officer Miller has a hard time buying the boy could be involved in a missing persons case.

He has a record, but it's mostly kid stuff, a couple of domestic disturbances back before he was in the foster care system, one charge of underage drinking, and a fight. He's never been involved in anything on the level of kidnapping. Officer Miller isn't on the case, so he only sees Bellamy briefly, while he's being escorted in, and he's got his chin up, jaw tight, but his hands are trembling. Miller's on desk duty these days, waiting for his partner who'd been shot in a standoff to be well enough for patrol again. Maybe that's why he can't stop wondering what's going on. He hasn't seen any action in ages, and he's heard about this kid. He figures there has to be a reason.

It's easy to access Bellamy's file. It's not against the rules, exactly. He's not doing anything with it, not changing anything, not sending it to anyone. He's just curious. There's an old mugshot from the night of the fight, where Bellamy has a black eye and a swollen lip and a sullen expression. And yeah, he's definitely Nate's type, so Miller's not that surprised, but he also thinks his son generally has good taste in people. It's not his job, not his case, but he texts Nate anyway.

_Any ideas on why they're questioning Bellamy Blake on the disappearance of Clarke Griffin?_

His son takes a moment to reply, so scans through the rest of the file. Bellamy is a junior at the local public school, but 18, having missed a year of school the year his mother died. There's a younger sister, 10. The girl was adopted right out of foster care after only a few months. Miller knows they try to keep siblings together, but no one wanted a troubled twelve year old boy. It seems Bellamy had been passed from foster family to group home and back until he'd settled with a final foster family for his last year in the system. There's no mention of anything that would seem pertinent in the case. Miller's phone beeps.

_**Off the record?** _

He shouldn't agree to this. He shouldn't even have told Nate that Bellamy was in questioning, but there's something about the kid... He doesn't want the easy answers, he wants the truth. He knows better, but he texts back anyway.

_Off the record._

 

* * *

 

 

**Two Years, Three Months Ago**

He doesn't really expect anything to change after that night with Clarke, so he doesn't know why he's disappointed when it doesn't. It had been a few slightly intoxicated hours on a roof outside a party where he'd said some things he wishes he hadn't shared. It was a quiet kiss goodnight. It wasn't the beginning of a friendship. Bellamy Blake doesn't really _do_ friends. He has Miller, who goes to (and complains about) the local prep school, rather than the public one, and he has the boys at the group home, Murphy and Dax and Sterling and Atom, and he doesn't want more people in his life. People bring complications and hurt and chances to be disappointed. He doesn't worry about that with the guys. He doesn't expect anything out of any of them. They're familiar faces, that's all.

Meanwhile, Clarke is... Clarke. He'd always known who she was before, but he hadn't thought about her much. She'd been more a concept than anything, the rich, beautiful, girl that everyone knows, maybe wishes they knew better. She hangs out with Wells Jaha at school and that's pretty much it. She's involved in a lot of the clubs and extracurricular activities, but she always seems above it all, like nothing touches her. She seems to know everyone's name, but she smiles in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. He knows what a real smile looks like from her now.

It had been easy not to think much about Clarke Griffin before that night. Why should he? They might as well come from different planets, for all they have in common. It was the alcohol, he's sure, but for some reason that night when she'd sat next to him, he'd felt like he was in the presence of someone he'd known for centuries. And it's suddenly hard not to think about her.

He's a busy guy. He's got two different part time jobs because he's trying, sometimes he thinks in vain, to save up for college. He shouldn't have any time to dwell on a girl like Clarke. It's stupid and impractical and actually embarrassing to spare a second of his time thinking of her when she is certainly _not_ thinking of him. He tells himself this for a month, and just when he's started to really believe it, he gets paired up with Clarke for an English project.

Bellamy's positive this never, ever would have happened to him if he hadn't actively been trying to forget about her. He's not sure whether that implies good karma or bad. When their names are called he meets her eyes across the classroom (they sit on different sides) and it's the first time she's looked him in the eye since that night. He manages a tight nod, even though his heart is beating too fast in his chest and then he tries not to think about it for the rest of the day.

Obviously he has to see her at some point. They need to meet up, exchange contact info, and try to figure out a timeline for the project. He just also happens to be avoiding it and he's not even sure _why_. Everyone's intimidated by Clarke, so of course he is too, but he does a lot of shit that intimidates him all the time. This shouldn't be any different. But it _is_.

Right now, he has this night in his head where he'd sat on a roof with a pretty girl and felt _content_ for the first time in years, and she'd kissed him and everything about that one evening had been _good_. If he gets to know Clarke, actually know her, then they can ruin it. He'll lose that memory of everything being just right. He doesn't want to risk that.

It's not like he knows her routine, but if he ducks out of his final period the second the bell rings and heads for the weight room behind the school at a purposeful pace, it's not because he's scared of running into Clarke. Bellamy refuses to acknowledge that he's scared of anyone, much less a cute 5'3” blonde. He breathes easier when he's inside the gym. The weight room technically isn't open to individual students. It's supposed to be for the students on teams, but Bellamy gets a pass because of Coach Kane. Marcus Kane is a local attorney who volunteers as one of the assistant football coaches in his spare time.

Bellamy had been on his middle school team, but had been forced to drop the sport in high school to make space in his life for a second job. Kane had always had a bit of a soft spot for him, after their initial clash when Bellamy had questioned a couple of his coaching methods, that is. He's not sure what Kane's deal is, but he seems to have a bit of a thing about looking out for what he considers the more troubled kids. Bellamy isn't sure if he should be insulted or not. It's not like he doesn't fit the category, but he doesn't like Kane assuming he _knows_ him.

Either way, it gets him into the gym after school while the football team is there, and that's good enough for him. He definitely can't afford to join a gym, but Bellamy needs a physical outlet to stay mentally healthy. He needs to sweat away his demons. Or, at least, that's the closest thing to helping he's ever found.

Kane nods at him when they pass each other as Bellamy's on his way out. They don't generally talk much now Bellamy's not a player. Bellamy has a deep seated problem with authority figures and a gut reaction to talk back. Now that they don't have practice together, they keep their interactions brief and Bellamy's not willing to admit he misses having someone like Kane to talk to.

He doesn't even notice Clarke leaning against the outside wall of the weight room. He's not even thinking of Clarke for the first time that afternoon, so he barely stifles a startled yelp when she steps up beside him with a cheerful, “Hey!”

He doesn't entirely succeed, if Carke's smirk is anything to go by. He rolls his shoulders a little, trying to gain his composure, and gives her a tight nod. He clears his throat.

“What are you doing here?” He doesn't really mean for it to come out so gruff and unfriendly, but Bellamy doesn't like surprises and he doesn't like feeling cornered. Clarke had somehow managed to hit both those points, so he's off kilter.

Clarke is unfazed. “I have Spanish with Ryan from the football team. He told me you work out with them. I thought we should talk about the project.”

“Right.” Bellamy hoists his backpack a little bit higher up his shoulder. “I have work every school day from five to eleven, which-” he checks his cellphone. “I really need to be getting to.”

Clarke takes two steps for every one of Bellamy's, but she's keeping up. “Okay, so we trade numbers and we figure something out.”

Bellamy stops walking suddenly. Better to just deal with this now, instead of dragging it out and letting it hang over his head. He doesn't know what he was so worried about anyway. Clarke is just a person. “I don't have any texts left this month, so you'll have to call me if you need to reach me.” He doesn't know why he can't seem to do anything but be short and somewhat irritable when something in his head is screaming about how pretty she is and how the color in her sweater brings out the color in her eyes and he's an absolute mess of a human being.

But Clarke only holds her hand out for his phone, waiting. He gives it to her out of reflex, a little sheepish about his short manner. He's watching for her expression to shift, when she realizes his phone is a beat up ancient Nokia. This is when her mask will slip. He's used to it. Only Clarke doesn't even blink, just gives him a pleased little grin and types in her number.

“Okay, call me when you get off work?”

Bellamy rubs at the back of his neck. “That'll be late. I close the diner on weekdays.”

Clarke shrugs. “I'm a night owl. I'll be up. We'll have to figure out some time to work together. Do you have work on weekends?”

“Sometimes, not always.” This is surreal, discussing his schedule with Clarke.

“Okay, call me!” Clarke gives him a final grin and waves, splitting off from him and heading in a different direction entirely. It leaves Bellamy feeling unbalanced, but he's not entirely sure he's opposed to the feeling. What strikes him then is that it hadn't ruined it; he'd scraped through a conversation with Clarke, but that night in his memory stays fixed, still good.

* * *

 

Seventh Street is the fifth group home he's lived and his second to least favorite. He'd been in one called Maple Hills (back when he was new to the system) that had been way out in the country and had been several houses grouped together with couples as “house parents” and other staff coming and going. He'd liked that one okay, or, he would have, if he'd known how much worse it could get. At the time, he'd been too upset about Octavia being taken away from him to asses the quality of his own care. He hadn't realized how good he had it. Seventh Street is different.

This is his first all boys home and he isn't convinced it's a good idea. On the one hand, it's for boys who've been in trouble, so maybe it's good to keep most of them away from the girls. Teenage boys as a whole aren't known to be the most level headed around teenage girls. On the other hand, in his past homes Bellamy's found that the girls had a way with diffusing the machismo in the house. Seventh Street is where they dump all the teenage boys with attitude problems that no one wants, so machismo has been a definite problem.

Bellamy hesitates to apply the term “home” to Seven Street. It's the sort of place where you're searched upon entry for weapons or other contraband. There's a director (Charles Pike) and other staff members, but no one they bother to slap the label “parent” on. Bellamy shares a room with Sterling, who's fourteen. They both have a bed and dresser and that's it. The main goal of the home seems to be to keep them busy, so they don't have time to get in trouble. Bellamy has two jobs, so he mostly gets left alone by the staff and he gets the distinct impression that Pike is trying to get Bellamy on his side. He seems to think his opinion has some weight with the other boys. If that's true, it's probably only because Bellamy has seniority.

He's been at Seventh Street for a year, and he's the oldest, inevitably that comes with some level authority. Mostly, it means that no one messes with his stuff while he's gone and he ends up giving kids like Atom (who's twelve and small for his age) bits of food off his plate and the better blanket from his bed(not because anyone expects him to, but because Bellamy can't help himself around scared kids). Unfortunately, places like his group home is full of them and he's heard Murphy sneeringly call him “Dad” behind his back. It makes him angry, not because he gives a fuck what Murphy thinks, but because the only person he's ever really been responsible for is Octavia, and he's not allowed to even see her.

The staff member at the door when Bellamy gets back from work is a newish guy in his mid forties with sandy brown hair whose name Bellamy hasn't bothered to learn.They have a high turnover rate for staff around here. He pats Bellamy down and digs through his backpack before nodding at him and thrusting his bag back into his arms. He has a feeling this guy will last another month tops. Some of the staffing changes is because they don't want to deal with angry teenage boys. Most of them are just aiming higher for their career in general. Bellamy doesn't blame them. He works in a rundown diner and at a mechanic shop (which he's barely decent at) and even he wouldn't trade. He gets why they never last long, but he's far past bothering to learn the rolodex of names.

He kicks off his shoes to leave by the door (another house rule) and heads straight for his bedroom. He gets free dinner at work, which Pike likes, since it's one less person to feed at night and means he doesn't have to staff the kitchen for when Bellamy gets home. There's a lock on the fridge which Bellamy has personally seen Dax pick on more than one occasion. There aren't locks on the bedroom doors and Bellamy shoulders his open. He's greeted by the sight of Sterling lying on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling of their room.

“Why aren't you in bed?” Bellamy asks, automatic, as he throws his backpack in the corner. He'd prefer to hang it up. He's found spiders in it more than once from leaving it sitting on the floor overnight, but they aren't allowed to drill holes in the walls, so there's nowhere else to put it. Sterling still hasn't answered by the time Bellamy's digging in his dresser for his pajama pants, so he tosses a pair of old balled up socks at him.

“I _am_ in bed,” Sterling says, petulant.

“Why are you wearing your shoes?” Bellamy amends. Sterling has moods. He's used to them. Sometimes he can even talk him out of them. He doesn't know what the boy experienced at home, but sometimes he wakes Bellamy up with his screaming.

“Why do you care?”

He doesn't. Or, at least, he doesn't care really _why_ Sterling is wearing his shoes in bed at half past midnight. He can't help but care why he's upset. Bellamy pulls his shirt over his head and folds it carefully, setting it on top of his dresser. He won't have time to do laundry until Saturday. His pants follow, set aside. He tugs on the pajama pants and turns around to face Sterling.

“Okay, look, I still have over an hour's worth of homework to do and I have to call this girl to figure out how the fuck I'm going to fit in a group project and I really just want to go to bed, so if you could cut me a break and just tell me what's going on, tonight's a night I could really use it.” He closes his eyes, starts counting to thirty. If Sterling isn't talking by then, he'll have to give it up for the night. He legitimately doesn't have time for this.

Sterling sits up. “I was going to leave.” He kicks off his shoes. “But now I'm not.”

“Where were you going?” Bellamy doesn't bother to ask why. They'd all get the hell out of this place if they had anywhere else to go. But that's the thing. They don't.

“Pike said my mom signed away her parental rights.” He can hear the careful masking in Sterling's tone, the way he's working to sound neutral. It's a situation Bellamy's witnessed before, but never experienced. His dad had abandoned him before he was born and his mom had died, so there hadn't been anyone to potentially take him back. Sterling's story is different. He's been in and out of the homes a lot, back with his mom, and then right back in the system. She always says she's going to get him back and keep him and he always believes her. Bellamy doesn't know how Sterling has managed to maintain that kind of belief in her, after everything. Bellamy wishes he could ever believe in someone that much.

“She wouldn't do that,” Sterling says, voice low and fierce and with no room for argument. Bellamy's involvement in the conversation doesn't actually appear to be necessary, so he keeps quiet and Sterling talks and keeps talking until he falls silent of his own accord and then gets up and gets his own pajamas out of his dresser.

He goes to the bathroom to change. Sterling never takes off more than his socks around anyone else. Bellamy has a hundred theories as to why, but he doesn't expect to find out. Everyone in this place has quirks and most of them come from trauma of one sort or another. Sterling has scars, clearly, maybe physical, maybe mental, probably both.

He takes the opportunity that Sterling's absence affords him to call Clarke. It's just after one in the morning, but she picks up on the second ring, voice light and easy.

“So you're not dead, I was starting to wonder,” is how she greets him.

“You don't have my number, what if this had been someone else?” he asks.

“Took a chance.” There's some rustling on Clarke's end of the phone. “Do you actually only get home from work at one AM?”

“Usually around twelve-fifteen, but I had to deal with some stuff.”

“Oooh, what stuff?” Clarke's voice is light and eager and Bellamy doesn't really understand why he has a sudden desire to tell her everything about himself. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol that had gotten him talking that night, maybe it had just been Clarke.

Bellamy glances at the bedroom door, suppresses the part of him that's aching to vent to a girl he barely knows. “Stuff that isn't mine to talk about.”

“That sounds serious.” Clarke's voice has lost its teasing edge.

Bellamy lies back on his bed and watches the headlights of cars that pass through his window on the opposite wall. “Shit here always is, don't worry about it.” A change of subject is in order. “How are Saturday's for you?”

Clarke sighs loudly into the phone. “This one isn't good. Sunday?”

“I have work.”

“When _don't_ you have work?”

He wishes she could see him rolling his eyes. “Saturday.”

“Helpful.”

“Look, why don't you stop by the weight room after school tomorrow and we'll figure it out then. I can work out and talk at the same time.”

Clarke laughs. “This isn't some ploy to show off your muscles right? Like, I'm aware you have them.”

He's tempted to question her on that, but he lets it go. “Funny. It's the only time that makes sense and I still have to do my homework before I go to bed, so I'll see you after school tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, voice soft and with a tone he doesn't understand. “Goodnight, Bellamy.” It sends him reeling back to that night, the cold air and Clarke's warm lips. He shakes the memory off.

“Night.” He hangs up the phone before he can accidentally say more.

* * *

 

They end up working on the project at the diner. One afternoon of Clarke following him around the gym and getting wolf whistled by the football players until Kane cuffs one hard on the back of the head, and she tells him sternly that she's never coming back. Secretly, he's relieved. He'd nearly decked Mbege himself for the comments muttered under his breath. Clarke Griffin is turning out to be a rather large distraction.

He ends up suggesting she come to work with him. Bellamy works at a rundown diner a twenty minute walk from the public high school and a forty-five minute walk from Seventh Street. It's not ideal, but the owner is an old lady who hardly ever comes in and leaves Bellamy in charge a lot and overpays him for it. He's not really convinced they've been making a profit for the past few years, but she never seems concerned, so he hasn't brought it up. He's the manager for his shift (not that this means much, since they have a cook and one other waiter), so he's able to do pretty much what he likes. They never have much business anyway, so having Clarke there shouldn't be a problem. He hopes.

Clarke sits at the bar and Bellamy brings her french fries and chats with her while she takes notes with a speed and intensity he can only describe as ferocious. It only works because the diner isn't a very popular spot, on a bad end of town, and Clarke shouldn't fit in but she _does_. She looks perfectly at home only thirty minutes after strolling in, leaning on the counter as she snacks on the fries, teasing his coworker Jasper and spitballing project ideas.

It's weirdly nice, having someone there to talk to, even if it is about school stuff. Clarke's smart, pretty much brilliant, and he disagrees with every other word out of her mouth and he _enjoys it_. It turns out Clarke likes arguing almost as much he does, so there's no real anger in their words, only constant debate. It's possibly the best thing that's happened to him since Clarke kissed him.

“You work a lot of hours,” Clarke says, once they've decided to shelve the project for the evening.

“Being a person is expensive,” he bites out. He doesn't like to talk about money and it's not like Clarke _knows_ that, but he particularly doesn't want to talk about this with her.

“Are you saving for something?” she asks, curious and oblivious (or pretending to be) to his suddenly soured mood.

“College,” he says tersely. He can't hate Clarke for being born with a silver spoon in her mouth, not now that he actually knows a bit about her and likes what he knows, but money is a sensitive topic for him and even just looking at her right now with her discreetly expensive clothes and her even, white smile that only money can buy, he can't forget it either.

“What do you want to study?” Clarke is contemplating him with a keen look in her eyes and he's suddenly quite sure that she's more than aware of how touchy this subject really is and is just very good at pretending not to be. That's not what softens him. No, that would be the way she'd asked the question and the way she's waiting for an answer, a real one, like she has no doubt in the world that he'll do it. No one has ever looked anything but skeptical or pitying when he's mentioned college before and he feels a rush of gratitude for her that loosens his shoulders and unclenches his jaw.

“History, if I could, but...” He snags a fry off her plate and Clarke swats at his hand with her napkin. “That doesn't pay well, so probably something practical. Like business.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose. It's exactly how he feels about it too. “My mom wants me to be a doctor,” Clarke informs him, bright with an undertone of exasperation. Bellamy doesn't say that he'd probably be willing to be a doctor if he had a talent for it; doctors get paid a lot.

“And you don't?”

“I don't know.” She taps her nails against the countertop and he takes the opportunity to steal another fry. She doesn't notice. “I just want to get a chance to figure it out, I guess.”

That seems fair. He doesn't tell her that the world isn't fair, like he could. If it were anyone else, he might, but Clarke has this hopeful spark in her eyes and he recognizes someone who hasn't been so disappointed by the world they've stopped believing in it. He doesn't know many people who still have that, and he wants, suddenly, to help her keep it.

“You have all the options in the world, you know,” he doesn't mean it as a chastisement, because she could be anything and he really couldn't, not unless he gets a miracle, but her cheeks pink up a little in response.

“I know,” She says sincerely. She smiles, just a small one. “No pressure or anything, right?”

“Hey,” Bellamy holds up his hands, “who would have known, growing up with money comes with some expectations of success? Wanna trade?”

Clarke laughs, and it makes the whole room feel warmer, but he doesn't have time to bask in it because he gets pulled away by another customer requesting a coffee refill.

When he gets back, Clarke has put away her notes and is tapping at her phone. She looks up when he approaches.

“I should be getting home,” she says, and he ignores the little sinking disappointment in his chest. It would be foolish to get attached to her.

“How are you getting back? Do you have a ride?” It's a habit of him to ask, leftover from his childhood when his mother had a penchant for making bad decisions.

“Yeah, I'll get an Uber.”

“I can ask Jasper to finish up tonight and head out early. Let me walk you home,” he offers. He doesn't really _get_ Uber, certainly doesn't trust it.

“It's fine, it's really not a big deal, I take them all the time,” Clarke protests. “I wouldn't want to bother you.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “It's not a problem. I'll just be worried if you get in an Uber, so really, you're doing me a favor.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him, like she's trying to see through him. “What's wrong with Uber?”

“You're literally getting into a stranger's car. Isn't that like the number one thing they teach children not to do? In what world does that not seem like a bad idea?” He's in full-on big brother mode, not that he views Clarke as a sister, but he hasn't actually gotten to _be_ a big brother in so long that it startles him a bit.

“Bellamy Blake, are you a luddite?” Clarke asks, amused.

“I don't hate technology.” He really wishes he'd managed to suppress the urge to point a finger at her like he's a lecturing parent, but its too late for that, so he pretends it was intentional. Clarke is smirking, anyway. “It's people that I think are idiots.”

“Are you calling me an idiot for using Uber?”

Bellamy heaves out a sigh. Clarke is a menace. “Just let me walk you home,” he says, tired. Her smile is vibrant.

“Well, why didn't you just offer?” she teases.

“On second thought, don't let me walk you home; I'll definitely strangle you. You're safer with the Uber.”

She laughs and this time he basks in the warmth of it.

* * *

 

He becomes friends with Clarke Griffin like this- they don't have a lot choices on times to meet, since Bellamy works every day after school and Clarke has something most weekends, though she hasn't elaborated on _what_ exactly. So they end up deciding to make the diner a regular thing. They're supposed to prepare a presentation breaking down a series of poems they've been reading in class. Clarke wants to argue a stance of parallelism with famous English poets from the fifteenth century. Bellamy wants to make an argument for the poets being heavily influenced by Greek mythology. They're still in debates on which to do. At this point, Bellamy figures they have enough information and drafts of each that they could present either one. Maybe they won't decide until the last minute.

They finish the project (both versions) in three weeks, even though they have six to complete it, Clarke spreading out library books all over the counter and cursing when she stains one. Jasper drives them both mad with nonsensical and useless suggestions, and when it's done (they get an A), Bellamy is proud of the project and disappointed that it's over.

He expects things to fade back into normality, but Clarke doesn't stop coming to the diner. He doesn't ask her about why she's still there and she doesn't offer up the information. Instead, she orders an endless stream of fries and the occasional chocolate milkshake. He chats with her when things are slow (which is most of the time, honestly) and she sketches in a notebook she never lets him see.

It doesn't occur to him for weeks that she might be lonely. Before he got to know Clarke, she'd been this absolute force of nature, unattainable in every way. It turns out she's fragile. It's not obvious at first. She smiles easy, and she's hopeful, sometimes almost childlike in the way she's so optimistic. But maybe she has to be. Clarke is layered, and it becomes increasingly clear she keeps the important things buried.

She shrugs and doesn't look up when he asks why she's wasting all her free time with him. He'd meant it mostly as a joke, but he can see the way her body language has changed, like he's gotten too close to something and she's trying to protect it, her lips pressing into a tight line and her chin tucked down so she doesn't have to look at him.

“Clarke?” They haven't really talked seriously, even though he would now consider her a friend, what with all the afternoons they've spent at the diner, chatting and ribbing each other and getting caught up in heated debates. It would be an understatement to say he has a crush on her. He has no idea what to do about it. He's hooked up with girls a couple of times, but a relationship is entirely beyond him, and that's what he'd want from Clarke, a relationship. It's probably best to just leave it alone.

She adds a decisive line to her sketch. “I'm just not that good with people, that's all.”

Bellamy nearly spills the drink he's filling in surprise. “What you talking about?” Clarke is the “leader type” if he's ever seen it, quick to speak up, smart, a little sarcastic. Everyone in their school is at least half in awe of her, he's pretty sure.

“You're the president of like ten clubs,” he says. “You got voted most popular-”

“-Yeah, but that stuff doesn't matter,” Clarke interrupts him, waving his words away. “It's all just... like a big publicity stunt. I know how to schmooze and talk and get what I want, but that shit doesn't really help with _friendship_ or anything. People know there's a... falsity, I guess, to it, even if they can't pinpoint it.”

“You don't seem false to me.” It's the only thing he can think to say. It's the truth. She's not quick to give up details of herself, but she feels far from deceptive. Guarded, certainly. Fake? Not unless she's fucking with him right this second.

It gets him a smile he's become familiar with, small, like she can't decide whether to be happy or sad. She shrugs. “That's different.”

He thinks she isn't going to elaborate, but he can't help but waiting, hovering, hoping there's more she's going to say. There's a lady in a floral print dress who is trying to catch his eye (probably to ask for her fourth refill of coffee) so he almost misses it when she says,

“I can talk to you.”

He would never admit that it flusters him, makes his heart trip a little, and he's only got a moment, so he steals one of her fries before reaching for the pot of coffee, and she rolls her eyes fondly like he knew she would and bites back a smile as he heads off to deal with the refill.

* * *

 

He becomes a patient of Abby Griffin's like this- Thelonious Jaha launches his campaign to get reelected as town Mayor with a glowing endorsement from Arkadia's own Doctor Griffin. A week and a half later, Abby Griffin shows up at Seventh Street as their new volunteer therapist.

All the boys at Seventh Street are required to do counseling. It's his second group home that has had that requirement and, as far as he's experienced, it's not much more than sitting in a room with a rich, white, doctor who has no idea how to deal with the sort of problems the kids at Seventh Street have. But their fancy degree says otherwise. Bellamy's sessions are on Saturday mornings, in order to fit around his work schedule, which means he'll be Abby's first patient.

“Isn't she a surgeon?” Bellamy asks, when Pike informs him of the change at breakfast on Thursday morning. “Is she even qualified to be our counselor?” He doesn't mention the fact that he's harboring feelings for her daughter and how that might be a conflict of interest, or something like that. There's no way he's putting words to his feelings for Clarke; he's trying to forget about them.

“She is qualified,” Pike responds. “She wasn't always a surgeon.”

“Okay, but _why_ is she suddenly interested in us?”

Murphy snorts so loudly into his breakfast from across the table that even Pike looks at him. “What? Isn't it obvious?” Murphy has mastered the art of looking utterly unimpressed with everyone and everything at all times. “Jaha's campaign,” he elaborates. “We all know our illustrious mayor is aiming for bigger things eventually. And when Abby Griffin, a respected surgeon who volunteers with poor, troubled, foster kids says he's a good candidate, who's going to argue with her?”

It's probably the most Bellamy's heard Murphy say in a month. John Murphy isn't the talkative type; he tends toward sarcastic one liners. He can't argue with the logic behind it, though.

“So we're a charity case, what else is new?” Atom asks into his cereal.

“You're all going to be late for school, get moving,” Pike interrupts, stopping the conversation in its tracks. Pike can be friendly if he wants something from you, but all the boys know better than to directly disobey him, or risk firing up his famous temper.

Bellamy doesn't care so much _why_ Abby Griffin is about to be thrust into his life as his therapist. He mostly cares that he's suddenly going to have to spend Saturday mornings pretending to spill his guts to Clarke's _mother_.

For her part, Clarke finds the situation funny. “Just make up some shit about a deep seated fear based on a childhood trauma and she'll eat it up,” she suggests, doodling flowers on his arm with her pen while he complains to her over his break and eats her fries.

“Don't have to make anything up,” Bellamy says through a mouthful. Clarke gives him a look, one that he's familiar with now, that says she doesn't appreciate him making bitter jokes about his shitty childhood if he doesn't want to have a serious conversation immediately afterward.

“See, I've already got a Griffin therapist,” Bellamy grumbles. “Mine is blonde.”

“She really does think she's being helpful,” Clarke says, adding vines to her drawing, swirling patterns that overlap and disappear under the petals of the flowers.

“Yeah, people think that a lot when it comes to us.” It's amazing how little people can do and feel good about themselves. He's seen it all the time, being at the receiving end of “charity.” It's easy to walk away to your nice house and warm bed and well stocked fridge and think you've made a difference. He's seen very few people make a genuine difference in his life.

Clarke adds a final swirl to the floral pattern on his arm. “I'm pretty sure your break is over,” she says, voice carefully neutral. He appreciates this about her, that she always seems to know when to let his comments pass by unremarked on. He doesn't really want to talk about it, not right now, and she has a way of sensing that and moving past it. He knows it bothers her. Clarke is not, in his experience, one to let things go, so it means a lot that she's able to for him.

“There's no one here, but you,” he points out, even as he's sliding off his stool next to Clarke and heading around the counter.

“You could make me strawberry waffles,” Clarke suggests, smiling cheekily.

“So demanding,” Bellamy teases, reaching for the waffle iron. He's trying really hard not to think about how much he looks forward to work these days, Clarke across the counter ready with a smile or an argument or a problem to solve.

Clarke keeps a straight face. “I know, you'd think it was your job or something.” Then she smiles, wide, completely pleased with herself. It's useless to pretend Clarke isn't his absolute favorite person in this whole city.

* * *

 

Clarke is the sort of person who takes issue with small things, but she isn't really ever upset. She just likes complaining about them and he likes poking holes in her arguments and starting her on a whole new rant. They argue, but it's clear she's not really mad.

He knows Clarke's in a genuinely bad mood when she storms into the diner and flings herself onto one of the stools at the counter and doesn't pull out her sketchbook, just taps her fingers angrily on the countertop. Clarke tends to minimize her problems, and this is pretty much the opposite of that. He brings her a chocolate milkshake in hopes to temper her mood, not bothering to let her order. She sort of half grunts in appreciation and takes a long sip.

“Mothers suck,” she bursts out a moment later, glaring down the milkshake like it's done her personal offense.

Bellamy smothers a laugh. He's not sure she's in the mood for it. “No arguments here. Any particular reason why?”

Clarke takes a minute to answer, stabbing at her milkshake with her straw. “I kissed this girl, Lexa, at one of my mom's charity galas a few months ago. Not like, as a statement or in the middle of everything or anything, but my mom saw and took at as a sign that I wanted to start dating. So she's become really obsessed with the idea of setting me up with someone who will be good for appearances. You know, like the son or daughter of a big donor or a politician or a _president_ or something. There's another charity event next Friday evening and she's got me stuck showing Cage _Wallace_ around and he's an insufferable dick bag. His mother is the Dean at the prep school which I got _expelled_ from, partially for kicking Cage in the balls, so there is no universe in which this a good idea at all.” She says all this very fast, like maybe he won't catch the bits that make it clear that Clarke is stupid rich.

“Cage Wallace, as in the son of _Senator_ Wallace?” Bellamy asks, head reeling a bit. He knows Clarke is from a different world than him, but it's always been easy to forget here, in the bad lighting with the greasy food. She could be just like him. But she's not. It's like plunging into ice water, the reminder that Clarke Griffin is completely, and in every way, out of his league.

“Yep,” Clarke says, popping the p. She isn't meeting his eyes and he can tell that she's made herself uncomfortable, now that she's finished venting and she's starting to realize how all this might sound to his ears. He hasn't told her, but his complaints about his mother had been about abusive boyfriends and final notices and the lack of food in the fridge. And no, he hasn't told her about all that, but he's made references to his childhood and he's quite sure Clarke knows how different their problems with family are. But unlike with other people, he doesn't feel the urge to call her on it.

“Well, he's a Republican, so...”

Clarke snorts, looks up at him. “I know it sounds stupid...”

“It doesn't,” Bellamy tells her, quiet. “No one wants someone else telling them how they should live their life.”

“It means I can't hang out on Friday.”

He hadn't thought of that. He's used to having her around, which is ridiculous because he's at _work_ , but she's been pretty much a constant presence for weeks. He's going to miss her and he's a fucking idiot for getting attached to someone like Clarke, but he's gone and done it now. It's only one evening, he reminds himself. It's not a big deal.

“See if you can kick Cage in the balls again, and I'm sure the night will be worth it,” Bellamy jokes, hoping his voice doesn't betray his disappointment.

* * *

 

His first session with Abby Griffin isn't a total disaster. That's about the best he can say for it. Clarke's mother is a little bit like he expected and a lot like what he'd been concerned about. It's not that he thinks she's a bad person, but he _knows_ she's using him, using Seventh Street, and she probably doesn't feel bad about it because she thinks she's doing a good thing. He has to fight to keep his temper in check at the thought of it.

He manages because no matter how much he wants to flat out accuse Dr. Griffin of only volunteering here for her image, she's still Clarke's mother and the naïve, hopeful part of him aches to make a good impression. He feels foolish for it, but he can't stop himself. Clarke means something to him, so her mother has to, too.

“Bellamy, I'm Dr. Griffin,” she introduces herself with a firm handshake and an even, emotionless tone. Like he didn't already know that (even if he didn't have an actual appointment with her, he would still recognize her face from the TV and the hospital billboards around town). He bites his tongue and shakes her hand and just says,  
“Nice to meet you.” They're in the rec room of the group home, which is basically just a spare room with a couple of sofas and a beat up ping pong table that someone donated last year. They'd lost all the ping pong balls ages ago.

“I know it will take some time for us to reach the comfort level that I imagine you had with the previous counselor. I have your file, but I don't want to talk about that, okay?” She's sitting on a hard, wooden chair that has teethmarks all along the legs from the puppy that belonged to the couple that donated it. Bellamy's forced to sit on the sofa, which he sinks into. It makes him feel small.

“Okay,” he agrees, wary. In his experience, it's never really good when they're actually interested. It's easy enough to answer the normal questions, things about his childhood, shit he makes up about why he'd gotten into fights or what the domestic disturbance calls had been about. He'd made a lot of stuff up on his mother's behalf over the years.

“I want to talk about Octavia.”

It takes everything he has not to flinch at that. Part of the reason he's so disdainful of therapy in general is that no one he's seen has ever bothered to mention his sister. He figures if they're so good at figuring out how people work, their core motivations, they would have asked about his sister by now.

“Why?”

“You haven't seen her in a couple of years, is that right?”

“Yes.” He has to grit his teeth to get the words out. It's not like she doesn't know. It's in the file. He doesn't want to talk about Octavia with her. He hasn't even talked about Octavia with Clarke, not since that first night. He gets by because he buries all that deep, where it can't rise up and swallow him. He has no interest in dragging it out. Not for Dr. Griffin.

“Why not?”

“Her adoptive parents thought it was better if she got a cleaner break. They thought she was too attached to me.” He banishes the image that wells up in his mind Octavia standing at the end of the driveway, hair in pigtails, waving. She hadn't realized it would be the last time she saw him, but he did.

“Because you raised her?” Dr. Griffin's voice is still carefully measured, but there's something in her tone that sounds like Clarke and it makes him suddenly angry. She's _not_ Clarke and she's not his friend and she's not here because she cares about him and she doesn't get to demand answers from him.

“I don't know why you're asking me; it's in the file. You know I did,” Bellamy snaps. It's probably what she wants, but he can't help himself.

“I do know what the file says.” Dr. Griffin is looking at him plainly. “I don't know what you think about any of the things in it, however.”

“I _think_ that it sucks that they put us in this room and expect us to spill our guts to a total stranger, like that's a normal thing to do, like any of us would _ever_ want to do that.” He should have gone with Clarke's thing about childhood trauma. It's a bit late for that now.

If he's not wrong, Abby Griffin just smiled. It's gone before he's sure he saw it.

“Noted,” she says, and there's a twinkle in her eye that is so Clarke he has to look away.

Somehow, by the end of the half hour block, he doesn't hate Abby Griffin and he's pretty sure she doesn't hate him either. Not a total disaster seems like the best way to describe it.

* * *

 

Work that next Friday without Clarke kind of sucks. He hates to admit, because he's done it plenty before they were friends. There's no reason it should actually be a problem. And it's not like he's less effective. He's probably a slightly better waiter when he isn't chatting with Clarke as much as possible. It's just that the time _drags_. He feels every minute ticking by. He can't stop looking up at the big clock over the door, disappointed when no more than five or ten minutes have passed.

It's not like he has anything better to be doing. If he wasn't here, he'd just be at the Seventh Street, which isn't exactly _homey_ and there's not much to do. He'd choose the group home over some of the foster families he's lived with, but it's definitely not better than the good ones. He's sixteen now, though, so he likely won't get an actual foster family again. No one really wants a sixteen year old with authority issues.

It's been a pretty quiet night, one loud table of drunk college students and a couple of truck drivers. He's on staff with Emori, who he likes. Usually. She stays more out of his way than Jasper does, but he's also never caught Jasper hooking up in the supply closet on his break. The image of Murphy's pale ass is burned permanently into his brain and he entirely blames Emori for the incident (actually, he blames Murphy a lot too, but there's a lot worse things to blame Murphy for, like the time he nearly ran over Bellamy in a stolen car). Emori just smiles sharp and pleased whenever it comes up, though, so he's stopped trying to use it against her.

He takes his break at ten and stands out back in the cold air, wondering if Clarke can answer texts. He has a few left for the month, and it's not like he spends much time texting anyone else. He types out three drafts, but none of them feel right. It isn't as if he hasn't texted Clarke before, but the texts had always started with a purpose, a continuation of a conversation they'd been having earlier, an observation she would enjoy, and then evolved into a different conversation. They haven't talked today, and he doesn't know what to say to her. _Work sucks without you_ probably doesn't help him on the “don't make it obvious to Clarke how much you like her” front. He stuffs his cellphone back into his pocket. He doesn't need to talk to Clarke anyway. He scuffs a shoe on the concrete. He hates himself for being this bothered.

“Long night?”

He definitely thinks he's imagining it when he turns around and Clarke is standing in the doorway. But he's never seen Clarke like this, with her hair in an elaborate updo and perfect makeup and a long pink dress that flows around her legs. She looks like she's come straight out of a fairytale and Bellamy just blinks at her, stunned.

“What are you doing here?” he manages. His throat feels dry.

“Well, the party was basically straight out of hell, and Cage thought it would be appropriate to shove his tongue down my throat. So, really, the only way to save the evening is to kiss someone I actually really want to kiss.”

His mind kind of glitches around the _someone I actually really want to kiss_ part and he almost doesn't do anything at all when she actually does kiss him. Luckily, he catches up before she starts to doubt herself, and kissing Clarke is sort of like arguing with her, a back and forth and overwhelming fondness. As if he weren't already so far gone.

The first time she kissed him, it had lasted only a moment, and it had been the final breaths of a night that belonged more to dreams than reality. This time, he's half drowning in how real it feels and how much he _cares._ His chest aches with it. That's when he realizes that despite his attempts to fight against it, he's given Clarke the ability to break his heart.

She curls her fingers into his hair and leans into him further and he forgets about everything else. Clarke tastes like chocolate and champagne and a little like her raspberry chapstick. He commits the taste of her and the way she sighs into his mouth to memory.

“Wait,” he says against her lips, unable to suppress his smile. “Did you take an Uber here?”

Clarke huffs, and swats him on the shoulder, and mutters “Seriously, shut up,” but she kisses him again in response, so it was definitely worth it. It's his new favorite thing to do, kissing Clarke Griffin.

She tells him later, when he's walking her home after his shift with their fingers tangled, it wasn't impulsive, she'd planned every detail of it on the way over and then he'd had to go and bring up Ubers like the idiot that he is. He laughs, presses his lips to her temple. It's so like Clarke. He doesn't know what happens next, but for the first time in awhile, he feels hopeful for what the future holds.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Now**

He doesn't believe them when they tell him Clarke's missing. The thing is, ever since Clarke got her license on her sixteenth birthday, she's had a habit of disappearing. It's never for long, forty-eight hours tops, but it happens once or twice a month. He'd freaked out the first time and almost called her mom about it and she'd apologized a lot and agreed on a couple of ground rules. She needs her space, and as antsy as it always makes him, he knows he has to give it to her. She's promised, over and over, that she'll call if she actually needs him, and he believes she would. She also promised she'd answer any texts or phone calls (even if it's just to let him know she's going to be unavailable for a while). He's gotten somewhat used to it, but he still kind of hates everything about it.

It's not like he doesn't know what she's doing. She just drives, miles upon miles at the wheel of her car and leaves it all behind. They all have coping techniques. His involve a weight room and a punching bag; Clarke's is driving. He just wishes she would take him with her. He's never said that, he's not really sure he wants to know if she would.

It's been a couple of years since it started and he's more relaxed about it than he used to be. So when the police show up at his apartment on Saturday morning, his first instinct is to wonder how they even knew he's connected to Clarke in the first place. Their relationship is private, and the list of people who know about it is very small, practically nonexistent.

It doesn't make sense to worry too much at first. He knows Clarke. And she'd been at his place Wednesday night and just because Abby hasn't seen her in a couple of days doesn't mean anything's wrong. Clarke doesn't have the smoothest relationship with her mother. She's hid out at his place for an entire weekend before. Abby works so much she hadn't noticed.

He sends Clarke a text on the way to the police station. He's not under arrest and they don't have any right to take his phone from him.

_Clarke, where are you?_

She knows he worries, and she's never failed to text him back, just like she'd promised, so he doesn't expect to have to wait long for an answer, but when he's gotten nothing by the time that they get to the station, he texts her again.

c _all me. please._ He pockets his phone as they lead him to an interrogation room. He's been in several before, for some of the domestic disturbance calls, and he's aware of the way they're designed to be as intimidating as possible, but it doesn't actually make him feel any better about being there. He still doesn't understand why they've come to him about Clarke. They shouldn't know to do that.

They leave him by himself for ten or fifteen minutes and give him a glass of water that he doesn't drink. He has a distinct mistrust of the police; he has reason to. Police had never really been his mother's friend, growing up. They haven't really been his friend the past few years, either. He really hopes Clarke will call him and everything can be cleared up. She might have her phone on silent; she always forgets to turn on her sound, but Clarke isn't the type to intentionally ignore texts.

“Bellamy Blake.” The door swings open and two plainclothes officers stride in. He resists the compulsion to stand up. He won't let them get to him. This is all a big misunderstanding anyway, has to be. He never really expected to be in a police station because of anything to do with Clarke.

“I'm Officer Shumway,” the man who'd said Bellamy's name introduces himself. “And this is Officer Lemkin.”

Bellamy gives them a short nod and doesn't say anything. If there's one thing he's learned having sat in this seat a few times, it's to stay quiet. He's not under arrest, but they'll still use anything he says against him. He isn't the sort of person who's going to get the benefit of the doubt.

“I assume you know why you're here,” Shumway continues. He's got this look in his eyes, one that says he's already made a decision about Bellamy and it's not going to matter what he says, it won't change. It's a common look on cops. Maybe it's fair; Bellamy already hates him back.

He shrugs. “I know what I was told. I'm not clear on why I'm here.” Never admit to anything, that's another rule. Play dumb. Don't let them make you say something you'll regret. He keeps his hands under the table, resting on his knees where they won't see them shaking.

“Abby Griffin has reported her daughter, Clarke, missing.” Both Shumway and Lemkin wait, like Bellamy might say something here, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. There wasn't a question in that and he's not going to answer it. He wishes Clarke would call.

“The last place anyone saw her was a couple of blocks from your apartment,” Lemkin prompts. He has honest eyes; Bellamy decides he likes him better than Shumway, but that's not saying much.

“I'm sure a lot of people live within a couple of blocks of my apartment.” Bellamy shrugs it off. He's better at keeping his emotions concealed than he used to be, but he's still not sure if he pulls it off.

“Yes, but none of those people's names have come up in our investigation.”

“Oh?” Bellamy raises his eyebrows, mentally trying to figure out who would have mentioned him. Abby _knows_ him, since he'd attended therapy with her for several months, but he's also confident that she has no knowledge of his relationship with Clarke. Wells wouldn't have said anything, even if he knew. So that leaves-

“Raven Reyes mentioned that you seemed to have had a... preoccupation with Clarke,” Lemkin says slowly.

“I'm sorry.” The polite calm of his voice sounds forced, but it will have to do. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Cut the crap,” Shumway barks.

“What is this, good cop, bad cop? Isn't that a movie cliché?” He shouldn't let his tongue get the better of him, but it's his gut instinct to talk back. He stops himself from saying more.

“We know you know Clarke,” Shumway says. “Late last night they found her car and her phone. You want to explain why you've been texting her?”

Bellamy opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He can't seem to process their words. They found her _car_ and her phone; Clarke would never leave those things behind. Not voluntarily. Which means something happened to her. He opens and closes his mouth twice, trying to let the news sink in, feel real.

“I-”

There's shouting outside the room, muffled, but becoming clearer. There is one voice that rings above the others and he jolts with recognition.

“-DISGRACE TO YOUR PROFESSION IF YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND HE COULD DO THIS! YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER THING COMING IF YOU EXPECT TO RAILROAD HIM THROUGH THE SYSTEM ON MY WATCH, YOU USELESS-”

“Sir, you can't go in there!”

“I BELIEVE AS HIS _ATTORNEY_ , I HAVE THAT RIGHT!”

Bellamy is moving before he registers the decision to do so, chair scraping back, feet carrying him across the floor. He wrenches open the door, ignoring the officers calling out for him to stop.

Marcus Kane is still bellowing at several officers when Bellamy steps out of the room. Seeing him there, eyes flashing with fury and his stance wide, as if he's ready for a physical brawl if necessary, drives home the gravity of the situation. It hits Bellamy hard, his chest going tight, the sudden realization that Clarke is _missing_.

Kane catches his eyes and stops yelling abruptly. “Bellamy.”

There's no other way to put it; he breaks. “I don't know where she is.” The words rush out of him in a sudden, panicked stream and he's too far gone to care about the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “She _always_ calls and she would have found a way if she could have- I don't- Clarke's just-”

Somehow, one of them closed the rest of the distance between them and Kane has wrapped Bellamy in a fierce, protective hug. It calms him a little, but the words just keep coming. “It's _Clarke_. You know- I can't lose her- And they think I did it. I _can't_ \- We have to find her, Dad. I need to-”  
“-They'll find her, Bellamy,” Kane says, low and sure. “ **She's coming back**.”

The surety in his voice is what stops the words crawling up his throat. He doesn't know if he believes Kane, but he wants to. Clarke has to come back. Any other option is frankly unbearable.

When they finally get him ushered back into the interrogation room, he has Kane with him. Shumway had tried to talk Kane out of it (like that was going to work), arguing that Bellamy wasn't under arrest, but it had been a lost cause from the moment he opened his mouth.

Even with Kane at his side, Bellamy's scared this time. Last time, it hadn't been real, just a misunderstanding, Abby being paranoid, anything but what they said it was. Clarke is _missing_. He keeps repeating it in his head like that will somehow change the meaning, like it will make it not true. Clarke is _missing_ , and they're wasting time looking at him. He wants to scream, break something, go looking for her himself, but he can't do any of that, so he clenches his jaw and lets his hands ball into fists in his lap.

“Are you going to cooperate this time?” Shumway asks, when they're all seated.

Kane gives him a withering look. “How about you do your job and ask pertinent questions?”

Shumway clears his throat, looks like he'd like to argue with Kane, but just says, “How do you know Clarke Griffin?”

Bellamy glances at Kane, who nods, before starting to answer. “We go to school together.”

“And what is the nature of your relationship?”

Bellamy pauses, looks at Kane, because he knows. Kane nods again. He'd promised Clarke he would never tell; this feels like an understandable exception.

 

* * *

 

 

**Two Years Ago**

So it turns out broody, mysterious, sexy Bellamy Blake is a gigantic nerd. She can't help it, Clarke is in deep for him. Even better, it's clear that Bellamy had no idea he has a reputation for being broody, mysterious, or sexy. He remains completely unaware of his own charm. It's actually distracting. Or, it had been; now that she knows Bellamy is stupid into her, it's just endearing.

But it's complicated. Bellamy doesn't have a lot of free time and Clarke has a slew of her mother's parties, brunches, association meetings, fundraisers, and SAT prep. So kissing Bellamy Blake behind the diner on his break doesn't actually change things as much as she thought it would. Other than the fact that she adds kissing Bellamy Blake behind on the diner on his break pretty much every day to her schedule.

It doesn't start out as a secret. They don't hang out at school because it doesn't make sense to. They only have one class together on Tuesday/Thursday and the assigned seats keep them on separate sides of the room. They have different lunch periods, different study hall. Clarke has her club meetings directly after school and Bellamy likes to work out. It doesn't feel that odd to keep to their normal routine. After school, Clarke hangs out at the diner while Bellamy works. They aren't hiding it; they're just busy.

It's a good schedule for Clarke, better than going home to her empty house and watching tv alone, which had been her pattern before her assigned project with Bellamy. In elementary and middle school she would hang out with Wells everyday after school, but it's been different this year. Since they started high school, Wells has had cross country practice because he likes to run, and golf practice because his dad thinks it's important for Wells to be able to play the favorite sport of businessmen and politicians alike, and he's always occupied. She still sees him on the weekends, misses getting to see him more, but she's glad to do something other than hang out at her house and feel sorry for herself.

She hasn't told Wells about Bellamy yet. She's going to, eventually, she just... Wells had admitted to her over the summer that he had feelings for her, which Clarke has never returned. Being Wells, he'd been incredibly gracious about the whole thing, a little embarrassed, but no less her friend than he's always been. It just feels a little soon for her to tell him about another guy. He wouldn't resent her for it, because he's _Wells_ and an entirely better person than she is, she just doesn't want to cause him any pain. He's shown some indication of having a thing for Harper and she's taking that as a sign that he's moving on, but... it's still a sensitive topic, for her, anyway. She'll tell him when she's more sure this thing with Bellamy is going to last. It doesn't make sense to potentially hurt her best friend for no reason, but... well, she's really hoping that she will have a reason to risk it eventually.

Bellamy hasn't told anyone about them because, in his words, there isn't anyone in his life who would care. He talks about the boys at the group home, sometimes, but there's a distance there. It's something Clarke suspects he has to keep. None of them have any control over their circumstances. It's dangerous to get attached to people who could leave at any moment. He has a soft spot for his roommate, Sterling, and a distinct dislike of Dax, but that's about all he tells her about them. Bellamy has a habit of clamming up if she pushes him on things. He divulges bits of his life and his past on his own time, quietly, when he can make it seem like it's less important to him than it is.

His only friend outside of Seventh Street seems to be Nathan Miller, who Clarke remembers vaguely from prep school. His dad is a cop, but not one of the ones that's big buddies with Thelonious Jaha, so he's not invited to all the campaign stuff that Clarke attends. Miller isn't much for talking, as far as Clarke can tell, unless he's making sly comments under his breath, mostly at Bellamy's expense. He stops by the diner every now and then, but never for long periods of time. She likes him fine, but he's hard to read. He doesn't ask about her and Bellamy, but she suspects he's more aware than he lets on. At the time, they aren't trying to hide it, so it doesn't seem like a big deal.

Then Clarke gets in trouble at school. Everyone knows that Mr. Teague is an unreasonable asshole. He teaches freshman world history and has a reputation for completely refusing to entertain discussion outside of his heavily male and heavily white curriculum. Clarke's convinced Bellamy probably would have gotten in trouble with Mr. Teague the first day of classes, but he'd been assigned to Mrs. Cartwig for history, who is both a better teacher and person. Clarke had not been so lucky.

It turns out calling your teacher a “misogynistic, close minded, racist, fucking dimwit” to his face is enough to get a two day suspension. Bellamy will be proud of her. Abby... not so much.

“Do you understand how big of a deal this is?” her mother demands, after picking Clarke up from the principals office. The car is a good place for Abby to go into rant mode. Clarke has no choice but to sit and listen to her. It wasn't always like this. Before her dad died, Clarke had always considered herself close to her mom. There are some things that are just hard to heal from.

“You should have heard what _he_ said,” Clarke counters. She knows it won't do any good. It won't matter to Abby what Mr. Teague had said to prompt the outburst. He's a teacher. He's allowed to say what he wants, apparently.

“I don't _care_. Clarke, you've already been kicked out of one school. This is your last chance here. Are you trying to screw it up? Is that it? Maybe I should enroll you at Pine Wood.”

“I am _not_ going to boarding school.” They've had this argument before, right after Clarke got kicked out of Mt. Weather Preparatory. Abby had wanted Clarke to go away to school, rather than enroll at Arkadia High, but Clarke had won out in the end. It scares her a little, how serious she looks about the idea. Clarke hadn't wanted to leave before, mostly because she'd miss Wells and because her mother had wanted her to. Now there's also Bellamy.

“I'm just not sure this is the best place for you,” Abby says, sounding tired. “I'm not _trying_ to piss you off, but when you're expelled from one school and suspended from another, I have to start thinking about the best way to deal with this, even if you're mad at me for it.”

“Mom, it was a one time thing!” Clarke feels panic starting to edge up her throat. She can't go _now_. She's finally beginning to feel happy again. “Ask Cece, okay?”

“You're supposed to call her Mrs. Cartwig at school,” Abby corrects, frowning and making the turn into their neighborhood.

“Mrs. Cartwig,” Clarke amends. “She hates him too! She nearly laughed when she heard what I said.”

“That's not the point, Clarke.” Abby's using her doctor voice, which means she's lost her. “You know better. You _know_ you're walking a thin line. You have to learn to control yourself. You can't just take out your anger on any idiot who pisses you off.”

Clarke suppresses a snort. Abby has a habit of telling idiots where to stick it herself. _That's_ a trait she got from her mother and she's not sure she's one to talk. At this point, though, there's no use in arguing. Once Abby disassociates and starts talking to Clarke like she's a patient it means the argument is over. Clarke's learned not to waste her breath.

“It's not like I _wanted_ to get suspended,” Clarke complains to Bellamy over the phone that night. She hadn't been able to go to work with him, since Abby had taken the rest of the day off. She and her mother had spent the afternoon and early evening in separate rooms with the doors closed and only seen each other once, for dinner, which was Thai takeout.

“I'm probably not the best judge.” Bellamy's voice sounds even deeper over the phone and Clarke closes her eyes and sinks into the sound of it. “I'm biased, obviously,” he says.

“I just feel like she's holding the boarding school thing over my head. She knows I don't want to go and she keeps bringing it up. It's like... she thinks the threat of it will keep me out of trouble or something.”

“You're not really in that much trouble,” Bellamy tells her, amusement in his voice. “I mean, there are a lot worse things you could have done than yell at a teacher. I mean, fuck, last month Mbege nearly set an entire Chemistry classroom on fire intentionally.”

“I don't think the fact that Mbege got expelled for attempted arson is really the best argument to convince my mom not to send me to boarding school.”

“Do you really think she will?” Bellamy's tone goes serious very fast. She can picture him, brow furrowed, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. She wishes she could say no.

“I don't know. Probably not if I stay out of trouble.”

He's quiet for a moment and she hears him take a deep breath, but whatever he's about to say is interrupted by indistinct yelling in the background. “I have to go. Jasper just broke three coffee mugs and we actually have customers. I'll call you when I get off?”

“Yeah,” Clarke hopes she's masking her disappointment well enough that he doesn't hear it. It's weird not to be able to talk to Bellamy for as long as she wants. He hates Mr. Teague too, so he's a sympathetic ear.

Wells is a little less sympathetic.

“You're not going to get me to say that I think the boarding school thing is about her punishing you,” he says, sounding tired. He probably is tired. Wells is in nearly as many clubs as Clarke and on two sports teams. He'd had golf that afternoon and Clarke is used to not seeing him on golf days (she's been at the diner anyway), but he'd shown up, just minutes after she'd hung up with Bellamy, and she hadn't burnt off nearly all her annoyance venting to him. It's not Wells' fault, any of this, but if he's not used to hearing Clarke's complaints by now, he won't ever be.

“Then why is she holding it over me?”

“Do you want me to actually answer that?”

Clarke shoots him a glare, but he's lying spread eagle on the carpet of her bedroom floor, watching her ceiling fan circle lazily, so he won't see it. She takes a deep, calming breath that does absolutely nothing to make her feel better.

“If you have a good point.”

Wells flicks his eyes to her, where she's sitting crosslegged on her bed. “She wants you to realize that you might not give her a choice. If you get kicked out of Arkadia High too, there aren't any other options.”

“I got a two day suspension, I'm not getting kicked out,” Clarke argues.

Wells sits up. “How is she supposed to know it's a one time thing? You've developed a pattern of behavior, Clarke. You two don't know how to be around each other anymore, not since...” He trails off suddenly, but Clarke knows exactly what he was going to say. Not since her dad died. He's not wrong, but it still makes her shoulders tense up and her jaw to lock down. She doesn't know if her dad's death will ever NOT be a soft spot. Wells is from a one parent household too, but his mother had died when he was two and he can't even remember her, so it's different. Maybe not less tragic, but different.

“Look, I'm on your side, Clarke. You have to know that I'm always on your side,” Wells says, low and even, “but sometimes that means pointing out things you don't want to see. You don't want to see Abby's point of view, but I shouldn't have to tell you that she's trying to do what she thinks is right for you.”

She really hates that Wells is right. She's never doubted that Abby loves her. Things are just harder than they were before. And now, the threat of boarding school is worse than it was just a few months ago. She doesn't want to lose everything. But Wells doesn't know that. She could tell him, but the secret of Bellamy feels heavy on her tongue. Wells hates lying, particularly to their parents and now, with the threat of Pine Wood heavy in the air, it seems like a secret to keep. Wells would keep her secret, but it's not fair to ask him to.

“It's not like I want you to go,” Wells says softly. “You're my best friend.”

She knows. Wells is her best friend too. She offers him a weak smile. “Yeah. Enough about me. I feel like I haven't heard about your life in forever. How's golf?”

Wells makes a face and Clarke finds herself cracking a smile; the way he rolls his eyes and launches into a thorough and very annoyed explanation about how much he hates golf is probably the highlight of her day.

* * *

 

She doesn't get to so much as see Bellamy for four days, since her suspension had bled into the weekend, and she finds she's anxious to get back to the diner, to pull a smile or an argument from him, definitely to kiss him. Something about Bellamy just grounds her, makes her feel like she doesn't have to have everything figured out just yet, like she'll get there eventually, with time. It's not something she's used to feeling. It's the first time she's excited for a Monday.

School drags and she doesn't even have English on Mondays, so she doesn't see him at all. Clarke has never liked to think that she'd be the sort of person who gets all wrapped up in a romance, another person, but here she is, practically jogging to the diner after sitting through three club meetings, impatient and excited.

He's wiping down the counter when she walks in, so she crosses the floor and leans against it, hoping she looks a little cooler than she feels.

“Hi,” she says, feeling a bit breathless. Bellamy looks up and Clarke actually sees him brighten, eyes lighting up and a smile spreading across his face. It makes her heart trip a little. He's not always so open. It's a good look for him.

“Hi.” He doesn't stop smiling. She gets caught up in the softness of his eyes, warm and safe.

“How are things with your mom?”

“The same.” It doesn't seem so important at the moment, not when Bellamy's looking at her like he hasn't seen her in months, rather than days, drinking her in. She doesn't mean to stare, but...

“What?” He asks, but his grin grows and it's clear he knows. He's looking at her with the same intensity and it's too much. Clarke looks away and bites her lip to keep from smiling like a fool. She just likes being around him. It's ridiculous how much. She meets his eyes again, and there goes her heart, stuttering in her chest.

“Fuck it,” Bellamy mumbles and takes her hand to pull her around the counter. “I'm taking my break, Jasper!”

“You've only been here an hour!”

Bellamy doesn't respond; he's too busy tugging Clarke towards the back. If asked later, she will deny giggling. Bellamy would argue with her. As they near the back door, she stops.

“Bell, it's cold out.”

He pauses for only a moment before changing direction, ushering her inside the supply closet and pushing her up against the back wall. She would laugh, but his lips are already on hers, and he's feverish in a way he hasn't been before. The kisses they've shared up to now have been lazy, slow and soft. But Bellamy catches her bottom lip with his teeth and swallows her breath. Something in Clarke lights up in response, a longing so deep and fierce it would scare her if she weren't too distracted by the warm hand Bellamy slides up the back of her shirt. She's never been kissed like this.

The door slams and Bellamy startles back from her, lips swollen and hair all over the place. She hadn't even realized she'd curled her fingers into his hair.

Emori is standing in the doorway, smirking viciously.

“This is not the same thing,” Bellamy says immediately, but she only smirks wider, grabs a roll of paper towels off a nearby shelf, and turns back toward the door.

“We're both wearing clothes!” Bellamy calls after her as she leaves. Clarke has no idea what he's talking about, but she's too dazed to care, leaning against the back wall and trying to get her breath back. Bellamy catches her hands and leans in to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentle and his eyelashes brushing against her skin for a moment; he's so close. Everything shifts, is suddenly soft and sweet and familiar. If it weren't for the sting in her bottom lip, she's not sure she would believe the desperate energy that had been between them, only moments earlier.

“I wanna take you on a real date,” Bellamy says, his voice low, vulnerable, but hopeful. She doesn't know how he goes from confident to shy so fast. He's moved back to look at her through his lashes, their fingers still linking them together.

“Yeah? When?” Giddy is the only work Clarke can think to describe how she feels, like she's floating and all she wants to be is there, touching, as close to him as she can be. She pulls him back to her and she can feel him grin against her temple.

“What about-”

Someone bangs on the supply closet door. “Your break is over, Blake! Get your ass out here!” It's Emori, and her voice sounds as smug as her smirk had been.

* * *

 

It's easy being with Bellamy, but it's hard to find time for anything outside the diner. The fact that Thelonious Jaha is running for reelection in November means he's spending the months leading up to it beefing up his resume, which means charity functions and fundraisers at twice the usual rate. That on top of Bellamy's work schedule makes finding free time that works for both of them nearly impossible.

Clarke knows he meant it, when he told her he wanted to go on a real date, and she does too, but she's starting to see the upside to keeping their relationship completely secret. Ever since the suspension, Abby's been on edge, her critical eye turned to Clarke. It feels like she's just looking for a sign to send Clarke away. She knows she doesn't mean to be, but Abby has a bit of an elitist edge to her, and her fifteen year old daughter dating one of her foster care therapy patients with a rough past and a problem with authority doesn't seem like something that would work in Clarke's favor.

It's not like anyone knows yet, except for maybe Miller, so it wouldn't be hard to keep it a secret, just until things around her house are a little less tense. She figures Bellamy won't have much of a problem with it. He doesn't want Clarke to go to boarding school any more than she wants to be sent. But it still feels wrong to ask that of him. It might be the cowards way out, but she does it over the phone.

He's out of breath when he answers. “Hey? I thought you had a rich people party tonight?”

“I do. Why are you panting?”

“It's cold; I was jogging to work to keep warm.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose unconsciously. She's not a big fan of physical exertion. “Gross.”

Bellamy laughs. “Some of us genuinely enjoy exercise.”

“Yeah, you're all masochists.”

“It's a good way to burn off anger. You should try it,” he suggests, voice light.

“Ha.” She can think of so many easy ways out. It wouldn't be hard to steer the conversation somewhere light and quippy and eat up all the time before Bellamy has work. It would be so easy to put it off, but they need to talk about it.

He beats her to it. “What is it?” She can't tell if he sounds wary or sad.

“You know my mom keeps bringing up Pine Wood...?”

“Are you going away?” His voice is carefully neutral now, too careful.

“No, I just think... We maybe shouldn't tell anyone about us until Mom and I are getting along a little better. I don't think she'd really... like _us_.”

Bellamy doesn't say anything, which sends Clarke's nerves through the roof. The absolute last thing she wants to do is upset him enough to end their relationship. Being with Bellamy makes her happy, so much happier than she thought she would get to be again. The possibility of losing that is terrifying.

“It's not like I don't want people to know. I'm not... This isn't about _hiding_ you, I'm just scared she'll make me go away and I want to stay, but if you'd rather risk-”

“-Clarke.” He sounds solid, sure. “I get it. It's okay. I can't say the idea of having to go to therapy with your mom after she found out about us was exactly appealing to me. We'll keep it private for now and if circumstances change, then we'll revisit the topic. Okay?”

She didn't expect it to be so simple. She feels bad about it, so she sort of expected Bellamy would too, but he seems fine.

“Yeah,” she breathes, then adds, “I'll miss you tonight,” before she can think better of it and get embarrassed. It's true. Clarke likes her routine and she likes that Bellamy is part of her routine and she really doesn't like it getting interrupted. At least she'll have Wells. She's seen him less this year than she ever has in her life and it's weird, not knowing every little thing about each other.

“Work is going to suck,” he sighs. “I'm on with Emori and she's been insufferable lately. I think Murphy is rubbing off on her.”

Clarke snorts. “Good word choice.”

“Fuck off,” Bellamy says, fond. “You've got a filthy mind.”

“You love it.”

“It's not as cute when it's also reminding me of Murphy's bare ass.”

Clarke can't help but laugh. She feels light, carefree, and all she wants in that moment is to be there, next to him, so she can link their fingers and press a kiss to his cheek and watch the way his eyes light up when he smiles. But unfortunately she has a $2,000 dress hanging on the back of her door and her mother waiting downstairs for her. She realizes the moment she's thought it how ridiculous and entitled that sounds, but it's what she feels.

“I've gotta go, I'm at work,” Bellamy says, and he sounds tired. Clarke has never understood how he does it all. She finds herself wishing he didn't have to.

“Okay. I'll text you tonight.” She's only just hung up the phone when her mother is knocking on the door. She knocks, but she never waits for an answer before she comes in.

She takes one look at Clarke and sighs. “You aren't dressed yet? We need to leave in forty-five minutes.” It's going to be a _fantastic_ evening.

Wells is by far the highlight of her night. They've both been to fancy event after fancy event their whole lives, and Clarke knows how to handle herself because she's learned, but for Wells it comes naturally. His smiles are warm and his interest always appears genuine (usually is, to be honest, and she kind of hates that a little bit). He puts people at ease. Clarke just manages.

But even Wells has his limits and when he catches up with Clarke (who's hiding out on the balcony outside the overly lavish ballroom where cocktails are being served) after a twenty minute conversation with Cage Wallace, even his smile is strained.

“Having fun?” Clarke asks. She loves Wells, but she's so glad Cage had cornered Wells and not her. As far as she can tell, Wells isn't at risk of ending up with Cage trying to make out with him in a dark corner.

“You know how I'm always trying to convince you that there's good in everyone?”

“Yeah,” Clarke snorts.

“I was wrong. Cage Wallace has no redeeming qualities whatsoever.” Wells runs a hand over his face, looking exhausted. It's hard to shake her best friend, and Clarke feels instantly gratified that Cage doesn't only get to her in this manner.

Clarke grins. “Welcome to the dark side.” Wells rolls his eyes, fond, and produces his cell phone from his pocket. It's unusual for him. Wells just isn't the sort of person who looks at his phone when other people are around. He has this thing about being fully present, available to the people he's with. It's just another way Wells is endearing; the list is long. So it's out of character for him, and Clarke has to ask.

“Who are you texting?”

It's hard to tell in the low light, but she thinks Wells looks somewhere between sheepish and guilty. It's not a common look for him.

“Harper.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I kind of asked her out a few days ago. I'm sorry I hadn't told you yet, but we just haven't had much time and stuff with your mom was a mess and I just...” He scrunches up his nose. “Those are bad excuses. I should have told you.”

“It's fine, Wells,” Clarke tries to reassure him, even as guilt is clawing up the back of her throat. It's only been _days_ and he feels bad about it; he probably hasn't even been on a date with Harper yet. She feels like a terrible friend. Wells tells her everything, and here she is keeping Bellamy from him. She could tell him. She _could_. He wouldn't like lying to Abby, but he'd do it.

He smiles, a little tentative. “Yeah?”

“Of course. You don't owe me immediate updates whenever something changes in your life. I'm just happy you're happy.” She means it, too. Wells has been crushing on Harper for months now. He deserves to be happy and Harper couldn't find anyone better than Wells. She should tell him about Bellamy. Now is the moment for it. He'll be gracious about it, even if it stings him a little that she hasn't said anything before now. He's her best friend. He _should_ know about Bellamy.

She opens her mouth to spit it out, but just then the balcony door swings open and someone stumbles out. Clarke turns her head to get a better look and realizes it's a boy, a year or two younger than her and Wells, looking slight and pale and shaken. He startles when he sees them.

“Oh.” He's frozen, unsure if he should back through the doorway. “Sorry, I didn't... It's just...”

Wells comes to his rescue. “It's alright,” he says, friendly and warm. “I haven't seen you at any of these parties before, are you new in town? I'm Wells,” he extends a hand, “And this is Clarke.”

The boy blinks at Wells' offered hand like he's seeing things, then takes it, slow and unsure. “Sterling.” He shuffles his feet a little and stares at the ground. “I'm being fostered by the Wallaces.”

Clarke looks up sharply, but neither Wells or Sterling seem to notice. This could only be one person, she's heard Bellamy talk about him, a little exasperated and secretly protective. He hadn't said anything about Sterling being placed with a family, much less the Wallaces.

“I didn't know Dante and Emily were foster parents,” Wells says, voice still easy, but Clarke can hear a hint of concern in it. The Wallaces are insufferable even in small doses. She can't imagine what living with them would be like.

Sterling bites his lip, and his uncomfortable, distressed manner makes a lot of sense. He has to feel incredibly out of place here, with the crystal chandeliers and the tux he's been stuffed in and the sly, underhanded conversation. Clarke can't help but feel sorry for him. Maybe that's stupid, she thinks, because he probably already has more right now than he ever has in his life but... You could never offer Clarke any sum of money that would make up for having to spend time with Cage.

“It's new,” Sterling says quietly.

Wells leans back against the railing of the balcony, giving Sterling a little more space, but his smile is still rather blinding. “Well, you're a quick learner if you've found this escape. Clarke and I avoid the masses as much as possible.”

Sterling's lips edge up, just slightly, at the corner. He doesn't trust them, that much is clear, and Clarke doesn't blame him. She wouldn't trust them either, in his position, but no one resists Wells entirely. He's just too agreeable.

“I have no idea what I'm doing,” Sterling admits, tentative and chagrinned.

If it's possible, Wells' expression grows warmer. He's a sucker for a kid in need. “Stick with us, and you'll never have to know the horror that is a conversation with Diana Sydney.”

Sterling's shoulders relax a little at Wells' gentle teasing and Clarke's not sure what she did to earn herself such a kind, fantastic person as a best friend, but the guilt of keeping Bellamy a secret sits low and heavy in her stomach.

* * *

 

Logically, Clarke knows she and Bellamy were bound to get in an argument at some point, a real one, about important things with real feelings and not an easy, fond one about literary characters or ubers. It's not like people can get along all the time. She just didn't see this one coming.

Things with her mom have been tense for weeks (months, really, since her dad died) and she's been quick to share that with Bellamy. He's a sympathetic, supportive ear. Why wouldn't she talk to him about it? The problem is, Bellamy's too good at keeping quiet when something bothers him, so looking back, it had probably been building up for awhile, but she'd been blindsided by it.

The diner had been particularly busy when she dropped into her regular seat at the counter, still fuming from her latest argument with Abby. Pine Wood had been the topic of conversation again, somewhere between a suggestion and a threat, as far as Clarke's concerned. She's stopped talking to Wells about it because he's made his opinion clear and while he'd go over it a thousand times with her if she asked him to, she can't see that making her feel much better. Bellamy, on the other hand, probably hates Pine Wood almost as much as her. Or so she'd thought.

She doesn't get to talk to him for the first fifteen minutes, other than a quick hello, because he's too busy, bouncing from customer to customer. This isn't a common occurrence for the diner, but it happens sometimes. There's three or four groups of college students, a few truckers, and an old lady and her husband in the back booth. When Bellamy finally gets to her, his hair is a little messy, like he's been running his fingers through it like he does when he's trying to remember orders, and he's got a big mustard stain on the front of the apron he wears.

“Tough shift?” she asks.

“What?” He's distracted, eyes scanning the diner to make sure he's not neglecting any customers, and it's not until he catches her gesture at the stain on his apron that he answers.

“Jasper,” he says by way of explanation. He seems to register her fully for the first time and his brow creases. “What's up?”

Clarke sighs. He's busy and she probably should wait for a better time, but she has her argument with her mother still ringing in her head and she just can't stop herself. “My mom. Pine Wood. Again.”

“It's the same, though, right? She's still not actually sending you there.”

“That's not the point!” Clarke snaps, instantly firing back up. She knows she isn't actually mad at Bellamy and she knows she shouldn't let her temper make it seem like she is, but she's just _so tired_ of things being so complicated.

Bellamy puts another pot of coffee on and hands Clarke a plate of fries that Jasper brings him. “I mean, I think it's pretty clear what's going on.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ ,” And Bellamy sounds pissed off all of a sudden too, “that you're letting yourself get all worked up over the fact that your mom cares about you _so fucking much_ that she's willing to do whatever she has to, pay whatever it takes, to try to do what's best for you, even if you two don't agree on what that is. And you're really fucking lucky that you're being raised by someone who both wants and can give you that, Clarke. Not all of us get so lucky.” Bellamy runs a hand through his hair. “And it's not so easy raising someone, okay? The fact that she's willing to go through you hating her if it means you're in the best possible place says it all. Because it would be a lot easier for her to just give you whatever you want and let you think she was awesome, but then end up in a horrible position because she didn't challenge you when you needed it.”

He has to walk away then, grabbing the order that had come up to deliver to the elderly couple in the back and Clarke watches him go, feeling shocked. She just... She's never seen Bellamy really angry before, and once the shock starts to wear off, she feels angry right back. He's right. She knows he's right, but that's not the point. She _knows_ her mother loves her, is trying to do what she thinks is best. That's not the problem, the problem is that Abby is so far removed from the confidant that she used to be for Clarke that she can't even comprehend or stop and listen to why what she thinks is best might not be the case. It's not about Pine Wood, not at the heart of it.

When Bellamy comes back she has to bite her lip to keep from immediately snapping right back at him. This isn't fair. She knows there was shit in his childhood, but she doesn't know what, doesn't know exactly which things he could be overly sensitive of and which he'll brush off. She doesn't know because he hasn't told her. Her anger and hurt is all swirling up together. There's guilt too, for forgetting that she has what he doesn't and probably never did, but she forces that to the back of her mind. He doesn't say anything either, just leans against the counter and looks at her, like he's waiting.

“I think maybe I should go,” Clarke says, and the forced calm of her voice is obvious. Bellamy's eyes narrow a little, and she thinks he's going to say something about all this, but he doesn't. Instead, he just nods.

“Maybe you should.” It's the fact that his voice comes out barbed and just shy of vicious that has her storming out of the diner without looking back.

* * *

 

For a week and half, she doesn't know how to go back there. Bellamy had called a few hours after their fight, but she hadn't answered and he hadn't left a message. He hasn't tried to text or call her since and she has no idea what he's thinking. It was just a fight, right? But... They were a secret couple before, and now they're not speaking or seeing each other and nobody even knows they're so much as friends, so are they suddenly _nothing_?

That's not what she wants. But she also doesn't want to walk back into the diner and apologize. She probably owes him an apology, but she thinks he also owes her one, and she'll be damned if she apologizes and he doesn't. She doesn't care if that's her pride talking, she refuses to be the only one to admit wrongdoing.

She's not used to being home in the afternoons, so she starts going to the park. It feels stupid and lonely to sit in her bedroom by herself when she knows Wells is at practice and Bellamy is at work; it feels a little too much like being broken up with. She doesn't _know_ if she's been broken up with. He hasn't called her. But she hasn't called him either.

She takes her sketchbook, and it's good, she tells herself, because she hasn't done any nature sketches recently. She's mostly just drawn Bellamy. She skips three pages in her sketchbook just so she can stay away from those sketches. They aren't going to help her sort anything out in her head. Wells would help, but it feels stupid and embarrassing to confess about her and Bellamy now, when they might be over. The fact that Wells wouldn't even think to give her shit about it somehow makes it worse.

“Hey, Clarke.” She looks up from her sketchbook to find Miller standing a few feet away on the paved walking path. He's holding hands with a boy with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale complexion. The occasionally lingering, appreciative look she'd seen him give Bellamy suddenly falls into place in her mind. She certainly doesn't blame him, Bellamy is beautiful. The quiet look the two boys share is different, though, full of trust and understanding, and Clarke feels like it hits her in the chest. They haven't even known each other a year, but she recognizes that look because she's seen it on Bellamy's face when he's looking at her.

“Hey, Miller.” She's fairly comfortable with him by now. He's not around the diner to the extent that she is, but he's pretty much Bellamy's best friend, so his presence isn't uncommon. But Miller is _Bellamy's_ friend, and she isn't sure how much he knows about the current status of their relationship (Clarke wishes _she_ knew more about the current status of their relationship) so the smile she gives him is tentative. She doubts Bellamy is shit talking her, it doesn't seem like him, but she can't be sure.

“This is my boyfriend, Bryan,” Miller introduces her. “Clarke's a regular at the diner.”

Bryan wrinkles his nose, but he's smiling. “I didn't know that place even _had_ regulars.”

“Good french fries,” Clarke tells him. It's not a lie, the french fries _are_ good.

“Haven't seen you this week, though.” Miller's voice is light, but his eyes are calculating. She doesn't think Bellamy's told him, but he probably hadn't had to. Her absence speaks volumes.

Clarke shrugs. “Things change.”

Miller nods. “Seems like a lot of it these days. You not at the diner, my boyfriend managing to fail keyboarding class,” he gives Bryan a disgusted and strangely fond look here, “Bellamy quitting his stupid mechanic job.” Miller is still talking, but Clarke doesn't hear the rest because she's stuck on Bellamy. He quit his second job? Clarke feels a pang of what she knows is irrational hurt. Of course she wouldn't know that. They're not talking to each other. When would he have told her? But it doesn't change that fact that it feels like something she should have already known about, not heard from Miller. Bellamy's been complaining about that job for weeks. He gets bad hours and he's not great at it, at least according to him. He says he barely worked there anyway.

Bryan interrupts Miller, which is really for the best because Clarke's lost the entire thread of the conversation by now. “Nate, if we don't go now, we're gonna be late.”

“Right.” Miller nods at her. “See you, Clarke.”

She waves, but she doesn't miss how Miller hadn't sounded at all like he thought he might actually see her. Does he know something she doesn't?

It's probably only sixty percent Miller's doing that she ends up packing up her sketchbook and going straight to the diner. She hadn't liked the way he looked at her, like he was expecting her to be wiped out of his life and, with that facing her, her pride doesn't feel so big. She can say sorry first. If she has to.

Bellamy's behind the counter when she walks in and she isn't close enough to see his eyes, but he freezes for just an instant when he sees her, before going back to what he was doing (filling up a glass of water). She doesn't know if he's happy to see her, if he's still mad, if he feels bad about the things he said or not. She takes a deep breath and crosses to her regular stool, slides in. Normally she'd pull out her sketchbook, let Bellamy bring her food without ordering, but this is different, so she sits, back straight, with her hands on the counter in front of her. He doesn't approach her for almost five minutes. When he does, his face is oddly blank.

“Hey,” he says, quiet (as if there's anyone to overhear them); the only other people in the diner are his coworkers and man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and socks with sandals in a booth by the window.

Clarke steels herself. “Hey.” She chances a glance in his eyes and sees uncertainty looking back. It gives her courage.

“I came to say I'm sorry,” she says, “for getting angry with you. I shouldn't have.”

Bellamy blinks and his face softens all at once. Clarke didn't even realize how different he looked until he was suddenly who she's accustomed to seeing. Harshness just doesn't look right on the boy she knows.

“I'm sorry too,” he tells her quickly, “I have... family issues and I'm trying not to be, but I'm jealous of what you have sometimes. I know it's not fair. Just because your issues with your mom aren't the same thing as what I went through doesn't mean they don't matter.” She can tell it costs him something to say this. He hasn't changed his mind. But he's making an effort and that should count, right? She just wants to go back to things feeling easy, whatever that takes.

His hand covers hers on the counter, warm. She nearly startles, not expecting it, but his hand on hers is something she hadn't even realized she was missing. She wants to walk around the counter and hold him, but she's really not sure if that's allowed.

“I wasn't sure you'd come back at all,” he says finally, heavy.

“Me either.” She's not sure if she's telling the truth or not. She'd told herself that, but she also hadn't felt like it was over, not really. Bellamy's not nearly so easy to leave behind. Sure, the first night she'd had a couple of vicious fantasies of telling her mom she wanted to go to Pine Wood and just leaving and not telling him and hoping he felt like shit about it. But she never actually wanted to do it, it was just the anger talking.

Bellamy's lips tilt upwards, but somehow he still looks incredibly serious. “You want a milkshake?”

Clarke snorts, because it doesn't even begin to cover the things they probably need to talk about. It doesn't fix that it doesn't feel normal yet. It doesn't change that Bellamy has issues with her lifestyle, even if he doesn't want to, and that those will probably continue to make appearances. It doesn't even begin to address the fact that she'd been starting to feel like maybe she could say anything to him and now she knows she can't. Or that she isn't sure they'll ever move forward if he continues to be so secretive about his past. But she wants that, so much, to move forward with him. So all she says is,  
“Chocolate.”

* * *

 

Even Abby Griffin hates the Wallaces, but she's politically savvy in a way that Clarke both admires and despises, and since Thelonious being supported in his campaign by Senator Wallace would give him a huge boost, Clarke is suddenly forced to see a lot more of them. It turns out that's where Sterling comes into the picture too.

“I'm a publicity stunt,” he tells Clarke and Wells after the fourth fancy event they've guided him through. They've snuck off to a dark room with bottles of wine. Sterling still doesn't know that Clarke so much as knows Bellamy. She can't tell him without explaining the whole story, not just to Sterling, but to Wells, and she's swung back to the “let's keep this a secret” side of things even harder since her fight with Bellamy. Maybe it's stupid, but things seem so much more fragile than they had before. She doesn't want to make a big deal out of her relationship, only for it to fall apart.

For his part, Bellamy had known Sterling had been placed in a new home (obviously, since he now has his room at Seventh Street to himself for awhile), but he hadn't known where, and had seemed disgruntled when Clarke had told him. She can't blame him, she's complained about the Wallaces enough for Bellamy to have formed a rather negative opinion.

“For campaign season,” Sterling clarifies. “I look really good for them, but my mom always wants me back, so they have a good excuse to get rid of me once they don't need me anymore.”

“Is he up for reelection this year?” Wells asks. To anyone else, he'd seem normal, but Clarke can tell the wine has gotten to him a bit, the ends of his words not quite as sharp as normal.

“Yeah,” Sterling has his eyes closed. “And I'll be back in Seventh Street by the time election season is over. But I'd rather be there than in the Wallace house. Cage is a psychopath.”

Clarke snorts. “No arguments here. I kicked him in the balls once.”

“Really?” Sterling sits up and nearly knocks over a bottle of red, but Wells catches it at the last second and sets it carefully aside. Clarke is about to answer when there are footsteps (heels, by the sounds of it) in the hall. Clarke grabs the two closest wine bottles and stuffs them behind a chair. Wells is similarly quick to hide the others. They've been through this a few times.

“Clarke, there you are.” It's Abby, not a hair out of place, even though it's been hours. “We're going.” It's not like her mother to leave an event this early, but Clarke is not about to complain. She stands up, hopes her mother doesn't notice the slight wobble in her step, and gives the boys a little wave. She can feel her mother watching her critically, but she's not sure exactly what it's about.

They're halfway home before Abby says anything. “I see you and Wells have befriended Sterling Tracey.” She says it neutral, but the fact that she's brought it up at all means she has an opinion.

“Sure.” Clarke wouldn't really say she's _friends_ with Sterling. He's fine. But she doesn't find him incredibly engaging or interesting. He doesn't share her sense of humor. He's not that much younger than her, but he _feels_ younger. But he's someone that Bellamy cares about, even if he'd never admit it, and that makes her want to make sure he's okay. Maybe that's a terrible reason to be nice to someone, but Bellamy has talked about this kid and worried about him (and then denied worrying about him) and it doesn't feel right to not reach out when she can. Besides, even if she hadn't cared, Wells would have.

“That boy has had a rough past,” Abby starts. “He's... I just want you to remember that I work with the boys from his foster home and none of them have had an easy time. It's not their fault, I know, but I know things about them, things they've done, things they've been through, and some of them are really damaged, Clarke. Some of them are... concerning.”

It's not like this surprises her. This is part of the entire reason she's not told her mother about Bellamy. She wouldn't like it, she wouldn't understand it, she certainly would judge it and probably demand the relationship end. It still pisses her off. Technically knowing what happened to someone isn't the same thing as _knowing_ them. She may also be a little bitter that her mother knows about Bellamy's childhood when he's so unwilling to tell Clarke. She knows he didn't have a choice with her mother, but it just feels wrong that Abby knows what he went through when Clarke doesn't.

* * *

 

 

As unsettled as everything feels to Clarke, her secrets from her mom and Wells, her uncertainty over her relationship with Bellamy, and all the normal concerns of school that a freshman in high school goes through, the end of the school year approaches fast with very little changing. Her mom and Wells still don't know about her relationship; She's still seeing Bellamy, and while things have certainly gone back to being more comfortable, she's still not sure there's anywhere for their relationship to go if he doesn't feel like he can be open with her. She doesn't know how to reach him.

She notices it more now that she's looking for it. Bellamy is good at being supportive, she thinks he even actively works to rid himself of his prejudices against the rich for her, and she's touched that she means enough for him to try, but she feels like it's a wall between them. It doesn't offend her that Bellamy has issues with money, that he has issues with family, that he has issues in general. She knows there are reasons behind it, but she feels like she's tiptoeing around him, afraid of saying something that will touch on a nerve. She knows he has sensitive spots, but he won't share them with her, so she doesn't know how to avoid hitting them. She wishes she could go back to before, when she didn't really know that he was so hurt by parts of her life, but then she thinks that's selfish of her. What she really wishes is that Bellamy would share those hurt parts of himself so that she could try to soothe them.

She's not willing to give him up, not when it still feels like there's so much they could be. Not when he's clearly still trying, gentle and sweet and attentive to her. Maybe things aren't really that different to him. Maybe things are only different to Clarke because she's overthinking things. She just... she wants so badly to know what's in his past that he's so afraid to talk about. She's shown him all her demons, talked about her dad and his death and how that's still hurting her and probably always will. She's steered clear of the topic of her mom since he got angry about it, but he still knows more about that than anything she knows about him. All he's told her is that he grew up without a dad and that Octavia exists, presumably a half sibling. She wants to know everything, even the terrible things.

The end of the school year lifts her spirits, as it always does. Clarke doesn't hate school, but she loves summer vacation. She'll get to see more of Wells, without school, and he just got a car, which means they have a form of transportation that doesn't involve parents or hired drivers. On the downside, his father lets him pick out his car. Clarke is absolutely certain that when Thelonious told Wells he could have whatever car he wanted, he hadn't expected him to pick out a 1965 convertible Mustang. Wells loves it, but it needs _a lot_ of work.

Clarke's never been to the mechanic shop that Bellamy used to work at. He didn't have a lot of hours, only worked on weekends, and it wasn't the sort of job where she could easily hang out as a non-customer. But she knows the name of the place and she knows that Bellamy said they did good work and he'd probably still be working there if he was better at it and he was making more money, so that's where she suggests she and Wells take the car on the very first day of summer vacation.

She didn't know this was going to lead them to meeting Raven Reyes, but she'll take credit for it anyway. She appears out of the back room while Clarke is watching Wells ease the Mustang into the garage and the first thing Clarke thinks is that she's probably the hottest girl she's ever seen. The second thing is that in a town this size, she can't figure out how she doesn't already know who she is.

“That,” says the girl, eyes on the Mustang, “is a piece of crap.”

Clarke likes her already. “Try telling him that, that car is his baby.”

Wells gets out of the driver's seat after a short battle with the door. He's grinning.

“Oh, this will be good,” the girl murmurs, presumably to herself.

“Wells Jaha,” Wells introduces himself, holding out a hand.

“Raven Reyes,” she says, shaking it. Her fingers leave oil smears on Wells skin, but he either doesn't care or is pretending not to. Raven's got a sharp smile. And Clarke realizes, belatedly, that she hasn't introduced herself.

“So, you think you can fix my car?” Wells asks.

Raven smiles, somewhere between happy and vicious. “I can fix anything.”

Unlike Bellamy, Raven's a mechanic down to her bones. She'd moved to Arkadia two weeks after Bellamy quit his job at the mechanic shop (not that she has any idea that Clarke knows who Bellamy _is_ ) and she's been working here since. She's a year older than Wells and Clarke, had turned down a scholarship offer to Mt. Weather Preparatory, and will be at Arkadia High with Wells and Clarke next year. She says she's going to be an astronaut.

“This car is a piece of crap.” She says it to Wells face this time.

Wells smiles, serene. “Yeah, but you said you could fix anything.”

Raven gives him a glare. “I _can_.”

They spend a couple hours at the shop watching Raven work until her boss shows up and shoos them away. They might be paying customers, but Nygel doesn't like them hovering. Without a car, they just walk. Arkadia isn't so big that you can't walk it, if you want to, and it's a sunny day, breezy.

“Looking forward to the hospital fundraiser on Saturday?” Wells asks, teasing. It's Clarke's least favorite event of the year because literally every single person knows her mother and will want to know all about Clarke. It's always the hardest to sneak away from because people are actually paying attention to her.

“Absolutely,” Clarke tells him, voice sugary sweet. Wells laughs and nudges her with his shoulder.

“You know it's going to get worse,” he says. Wells has never hated the posturing that comes with their lifestyle the way that Clarke does. It's not _him_ , not how he is, but he doesn't hate it. He understands it in a way that Clarke never will.

“Yeah?”

“He's going to run for President, one day.” Wells doesn't even sound bitter, just resigned. This is his life. He'll be a Mayor's son and then a Governor's son and upward, upward, until he's the son of the President of the United States. Clarke believes that. She's never known anyone so talented at politics as Thelonious. She's sure he's got his timeline all worked out, got friends in all the right places. Not just anyone could do it, but he will. The thing is, Wells will be the perfect president's son- warm, educated, approachable, smart, handsome. He'll have the country in the palm of his hand with ease. She just isn't sure he _wants_ that. Wells doesn't talk about what he wants so much.

“Being the son of the President is definitely not going to convince anyone to stop calling you Prince at school,” Clarke teases. She's going to leave it, but she wants him to know. “You could talk to him, if you wanted,” she suggests. If there's one thing she knows, it's that Thelonious Jaha absolutely loves his son. “He'd want to know if his career bothers you.”

“He's trying to make a difference.” Wells' voice is the definition of reasonable. “I want to make a difference one day, too. Just not in the same way. If being the son of a President is what I have to do so he can make a difference, I don't mind doing it. I mean, it won't be the easiest thing, but better me than you.”

“Next time you actually get pissed off, please call me, because I cannot stand the rational version of you. He makes all the rest of us look bad.”

“Will do.”

She's missed this, just hanging out with Wells, teasing each other. She knows she's been keeping secrets from him, still is, so she wouldn't blame him if he were keeping secrets from her. It's probably healthy to have some personal space, but she doesn't want that to come between them. It's a relief to have this time, to realize that being their own people with their own secrets and problems doesn't mean they can't be there for each other. She's been unsure.

They go back to Clarke's house, spend the afternoon in the pool. Or rather, Wells does, Clarke retreats the shaded gazebo to read after two hours, more to protect her skin than by choice. It's good, the first full day she's spent with Wells in weeks and Clarke's so tired and content from the sun and the presence of her best friend that she falls asleep two hours before she normally would and doesn't wake up until nearly noon the next day. She has leftovers for lunch, watches three episodes of House of Cards on Netflix, and takes an extra long shower.

It's the first day in a long time that she hasn't had specific plans. Her mom's at work. Wells is hiking with Harper. She'll visit Bellamy at work in the late afternoon. His hours haven't changed that much, even though it's summer and she's not sure she'd even be allowed to visit him at Seventh Street. She could invite him to her house, has thought about it a couple of times because her mom is gone for huge chunks of time, so it's not like anyone would know, but she keeps picturing his face when he firsts steps inside, sees how ridiculously rich she actually is, and she thinks better of it.

Bellamy is reading behind the counter when she gets there, the diner deserted. He's squinting at the pages like an old man.

“You know you need glasses,” Clarke greets him.

He looks up from his book for the express purpose of making sure she catches his eye roll. “I passed my driver's exam when I took it last year, so I'm probably fine.”

“I'm actually one hundred percent sure that's not what that means.”

“Glasses are expensive.”

“You can barely read,” Clarke counters. “You know, being farsighted is probably good, right? Because a lot of people's vision shifts when they're old and you might be able to see close things better.”

“I can read,” Bellamy scoffs. “And I can drive, and those are the two most important things.”

“You don't even have a car.”

“But once I do have one I'll be able to drive it _and_ fix it myself,” Bellamy tells her, turning around to start a new batch of fries.

Clarke is reminded suddenly of the garage. “Speaking of which, I met the better version of you yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Raven Reyes, she replaced you at the mechanic shop and is apparently much more qualified.”

Bellamy laughs. “Wouldn't be hard.”

“She's almost as pretty as you too.”

“Should I be worried? It sounds like I should be worried. Just remember, I'm the one that gives you free food.” He plates up her fries, and Clarke smiles to herself. This is how she wants things to be again, how they are for stretches of time before he remembers the space between them.

“The food is a good selling point.”

“Good to know. I guess I better not lose the diner job.”

“Not until you're old enough to bartend and can get me free alcohol instead.”

Bellamy looks at her skeptically. “Please, you'd rather have the fries.”

He's got her on that one, but she doesn't care. She's on summer break, she gets to see Wells, and she and Bellamy are starting to get back to this good, comfortable place that has been just out of reach since they argued. There's a reason Clarke loves summer.

“Did you do anything interesting with the first day of break?” Clarke changes the subject. She'd fallen asleep before she'd gotten a chance to call Bellamy like she normally would and he's been out of texts for the past four days.

“I slept in. Sterling moved back into Seventh Street, so I have a roommate again.” Bellamy's working at a spot on the counter with a wet rag, brow furrowed.

“Already?” Clarke had thought the Wallaces would keep him at least through the summer. On the other hand, the main part of benefit season is over, so maybe they don't think it's worth the trouble.

“He seemed relieved.” Bellamy looks up at her. “I know you hate the Wallaces, so I always assumed they were dicks, but,” he shakes his head, “they're rich, so it's not like he didn't have the basics, so they must have been a real shit show for him to prefer Seventh Street.”

“Cage is basically the embodiment of the entitled, rich, insensitive, arrogant asshole, so yeah. On the bright side, he's lazy so he doesn't actually seek me out to be a smarmy douche if I work on avoiding him. Sterling just didn't have a choice on whether or not to avoid him.”

Bellamy smiles, but his eyes are sad. “I just hoped maybe you were wrong. The older kids, we don't get homes very often, so when you do, you always hope it's a decent one.”

“He could still get another home, you know,” she says, but it doesn't feel like they're talking about Sterling anymore. Bellamy nods, but it's clear he doesn't believe it.

“Maybe.”

When she gets home that evening, she finds Wells and Raven sitting in her dining room with her mother eating pizza. For a moment, she thinks she's seeing things.

“Hi?” she says from where she's frozen in the doorway.

Wells looks up first. “Clarke! You're just in time! We got feta cheese and sun dried tomatoes!” Wells is sort of always a ray of sunshine, but he's particularly blinding at the moment.

“Um? I thought you were hiking with Harper?”

“Yeah, I was, but she had family dinner tonight, so after I went by to check on the car-”

“-I told you it would take a lot longer than a day to get that piece of junk running,” Raven interrupts.

“-And your mom happened to stop by to get her oil changed,” Wells continues as if Raven hasn't said anything, “And now we're having pizza.” It kinda seems like a large jump from her mother getting her oil changed to her, Clarke's best friend, and their mechanic having pizza together, but it's hard to deny the truth right in front of her.

“And where have you been all day?” Abby asks, she doesn't sound suspicious, but something about her tone is probing.

“Just wrapping up some of the forms I had to turn in for Key Club,” Clarke lies. It's not like anyone can call her on it. She _had_ done those forms, just three days ago, but it's not like her mother or Wells knows that.

Raven crinkles her nose. “What does Key Club actually even _do_?”

“It's a service club,” Clarke tells her, finally moving from the door and grabbing a paper plate, eying the slices of pizza.

“Clarke is the president,” Wells supplies, “Also the president of the Art Club and French Club.”

“Jesus, how do you have time for so many clubs?”

“Clarke doesn't have a job,” Abby says, “which means she needs the clubs for her college applications.” Maybe it's a reasonable thing to say. It's not like her mother had said it in a scathing tone, just matter of fact, but it rubs Clarke the wrong way. She glares at her pizza. Wells puts a hand on her knee.

“The clubs will look really good on her apps,” he says. “Raven wants to be an astronaut, though, so I'm not sure what clubs are good for that.”

“Robotics club, maybe,” Abby suggests. “They have that at AHS, right?”

Wells nods seriously. “Yeah, and mathematics club, that'd probably be a good one.”

This is the sort of conversation that makes Clarke want to put her head down on the table and scream. It's not Wells' fault that he's so good at adapting to any form of small talk that exists, but Clarke _hates_ it. On the bright side, Raven looks vaguely disinterested, so maybe she's not alone.

“Mmm... I'm not sure I'm a clubs girl. I'm took all the highest level math and science classes they offer, though, so I'm having to do my math and science requirements online next year.”

“Really?” Abby perks up at that bit of information. “Did you ever think of going into medicine?”

Clarke barely suppresses a groan and Wells shoots her a small supportive smile. Raven Reyes is the daughter that Abby Griffin should have had, and she's cool and nice enough that Clarke can't even hate her for it.

* * *

 

Her second big argument with Bellamy is a lot worse and a lot better. Worse because she's been on edge, waiting for it, and she maybe explodes a little unfairly. Better because... Well, better because of Bellamy, really.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. If it had happened before the last argument, Clarke probably wouldn't even have _noticed_ , because Bellamy's good at hiding himself when he wants to be. But she's been watching him for any sign that she's hit on a sore spot and when she mentions the fact that since Jaha's campaign is ramping up her house is basically being used as a command post and she's tired of her mother bringing her work home and Bellamy's gaze gets sharp and his shoulders tense up and he pretends like she hasn't said anything, she's just had enough of it. If she can't talk about her life, what's the point of their relationship? She maybe comes down a little hard on him.

“Look, if you just want me to never talk about myself and just be a pretty girl who sits around and watches you work, you've got the wrong fucking girl.”

“I didn't even say anything,” Bellamy says, and is voice is on the edge of calm, so close to plunging into anger. He isn't looking at her, cleaning the milkshake mixer. He didn't, but it's there, throwing up a wall between them. His lack of response had been as loud as any words to her ears.

“Really?” She's making an effort not to let all the venom she's feeling leak into her words, but this has been brewing, just below the surface, for weeks. Burying it hasn't worked. “You want to pretend like there isn't a problem here?”

“Maybe if you weren't looking for there to be a problem, there _wouldn't be one_ ,” he snaps. “You've been watching me, waiting for it. I feel like I'm under a fucking microscope.” It's a good thing the diner is empty, aside from Jasper lurking in the back pretending like he isn't listening, because Clarke can feel herself climbing into hysterics.

“ _That's_ what you think the problem is?”

“Everything was cool until you got all paranoid!”

“Because you freaked out at me for something I couldn't have seen coming!” She's full out yelling now. “How am I supposed to know what I'm not allowed to talk about? You drop hints, you make bitter comments that you don't want to talk about, you don't _tell_ me anything! I don't know what you're sensitive about without accidentally stumbling into it and getting blasted for it! If you want me to be understanding you have to tell what I'm supposed to understand!” She can feel tears threatening and she doesn't want to cry. She doesn't want him to think that she's being weak. “And weren't you the one who told me that my problems were still legitimate for me, even if they weren't necessarily large on the scale of human experience? Do you remember saying _that_? Weren't _you_ the one who said it was valid for me to feel that way? What, does that suddenly not apply when it touches a subject that's hurt _you_?”

The tears overflow and she chokes on a sob, but forces it back down her throat. “I'm so _sorry_ that you've had horrible things happen to you Bellamy. I am _so, so_ sorry. If I could do something to change that, I would. I want so badly for you to be happy. But I can't help what hurts me either, even if it seems stupid and trivial to you. If I can't talk about myself, if I can't tell you things, what's the point of all this?” She's tired, tired of wanting it and it not being right. “Maybe this,” she gestures between them, “just doesn't work.”

“Clarke,” his voice sounds raw, but now she's the one not looking at him, so she doesn't see the expression on his face. It isn't what she wants, not being with him, but she's not convinced there's anything else for it. They've tried and it's not working.

She feels his fingers against hers, taking her hand. “You're right,” he says, rough, and her heart sinks low in her chest. She isn't sure she really believed he might agree with her.

“I'm sorry,” he says, quiet, and Clarke's instinct is to flee, because this is awful and she doesn't know how to handle it, but he tugs on her hand, a question, not hard enough that she couldn't resist if she wanted to, so she lets him reel her in, wrap an arm around her and press his forehead to her temple.

“I'm fucked up,” he murmurs. “And I took it out on you and I shouldn't have.” His arms tightens a little. “But I think I can be better. I don't want this to be over.”

Clarke's heart ticks up a little, weight lifting off her shoulders. He doesn't want this to be the end of them, and neither does she. But she hadn't expected him to talk about this at all. He's surprised her.

“You could tell me about it,” she sniffs, “whatever it is that happened to you.” She's tried to get him to talk about it before; it's never worked.

He sighs. “I will,” he says. “I want to. I can't just... Not now. But I will, I promise. And I'll work on it, okay? My issues, my past, isn't your fault and I don't want to let it ruin this too.”

“Okay,” she turns her face into his chest, breathes him in.

* * *

 

Two things happen in July that make it distinctive. The first is that Bellamy goes to live with Marcus Kane, one of the assistant football coaches from Arkadia High. He doesn't say too much about it, but Clarke can tell he's happy, surprised and wary, but happy. Marcus Kane is a first time foster parent and Clarke's very sure that this isn't about a sudden interest in fostering. This is about Bellamy.

The second is that Clarke has her sixteenth birthday and she gets her father's old car as a gift from Abby. They'd celebrated the night before, a formal dinner with a select guest list (meaning Abby invited Thelonious, Wells, and Raven) and Clarke still felt like it was stupid to be dressed up around these people who definitely didn't care how she looked, but Abby had glowed with it, seemed proud that she'd thought to invite Raven (who's been hanging out occasionally with Clarke and Wells, though more with Wells than Clarke), and she hadn't been willing to complain and hurt Abby's feelings. She'd tried to make it something Clarke would like, and that was more than Clarke could say for some birthdays. She doesn't get the car until the next morning.

Clarke's father, Jake Griffin, had loved his car. It's not that it's a particularly _great_ car. It's a Toyota 4Runner, so there's nothing flashy about it, but it's dependable and long lasting and no one's driven it since her dad died (unless you count Abby firing it up to keep the battery good). It's an unusual sort of gift from her mother, who tends towards new and sleek (yet practical) over old and sentimental. It's kind of perfect, but it also brings up a lot of memories. Abby takes her to get her driver's test done, and then hands over the keys, wishing her a happy birthday and apologizing for having to go back to work.

It's not a conscious decision, to start driving and to just not stop. She starts because she can and because it's making her feel close to her father for the first time since he died, but the longer she drives, the more reluctant she is to turn around and go home. The car and the road bring back so many memories of her father, things she didn't even know she remembered. So she doesn't, she just keeps going, as the sun sinks on the horizon and the sky fades into black. It isn't until she finally decides to turn around, and she pulls into a gas station that she remembers she was supposed to see Bellamy hours ago.

Her phone had been on silent in her purse, and when she pulls it out she has numerous notifications. Most are just from people wishing her happy birthday on facebook, but there are a considerable number of missed calls and several texts from Bellamy. She taps on his name.

He answers the call on the first ring. “Clarke?” There's no mistaking the edge of panic in his tone.

“Bellamy, I'm so sorry, I lost track of time and-”

“-You're okay?”

“I'm fine.” She realizes now, in hindsight, how this must have been for him, and guilt floods her.

“Clarke, it's been _twelve hours_ since we were supposed to meet up. I've been freaking out. You weren't answering your phone. I nearly tracked your mom down I was so worried. What happened?” She can't tell if he's relieved or annoyed. Probably both. She can hardly blame him. She has a fleeting image of Bellamy bursting into the hospital and demanding to see her mother. It's not a pretty picture.

“I started driving, just kind of... I don't know. I didn't stop.”

“Where are you?”

“About twelve hours west, I guess.”

“Fuck, Clarke.” He doesn't sound mad, mostly tired. “You can't just drive all the way back now. That's not safe. Find the closest town. I'll get an overnight bus or something and-”

“-Oh, no, Bell, you really shouldn't-”

“We have to get you back before your mom notices you're missing, right?” His voice leaves very little room for argument. “So you find a hotel, nothing too sketchy, okay? And I'll get there and then we'll drive back. Two drivers and we won't have to stop as much.”

“You have work tomorrow,” she protests weakly.

“I'll call in sick.”

Clarke bites her lip. She hadn't been thinking and she hates that she's had this impact. “I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize.” She can hear shuffling on the end of the line. It sounds like Bellamy is putting on his shoes. “You can tell me all about it when I get there, okay?”

“Okay.” There's a sign for a bed and breakfast down the road, so she gets out of the car to fill up the tank before heading in that direction.

“Just text me when you know exactly where you are and I'll figure out how to get there and we'll figure out the rest as we go.”

Clarke charges the gas to a credit card. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Bell.” She's feeling muted now, because this had been stupid, a bad idea. She hadn't thought, and Clarke always tries to think before she acts. She doesn't like the feeling of not doing so; she hates the fallout.

“Hey Clarke,” Bellamy says, and he's calm now, voice warm.

“Yeah?”

“Happy Birthday. I know it's a little late, but technically that's not my fault, so I figure you'll give me a pass.” And even though it's been an emotional rollercoaster of a birthday, Clarke can't help but smile.

* * *

 

Clarke doesn't want to discredit how much Bellamy having a place that's an _actual_ home and someone who's really looking out for him is important and fantastic. She knows that the boost to Bellamy's self esteem and happiness is definitely the best part of his new living situation with Kane. It's just, the fact that they now have a place to make out that isn't the diner is a very close second.

Up to this point, they haven't really had much time to explore the physical side of their relationship. That had been a good way to start, probably, because Clarke's experience before Bellamy doesn't stretch too far, nothing beyond some shared kisses and an awkward groping during seven minutes of heaven, so a slow start to the relationship had been just her speed. But months of making out in the supply closet or behind the diner and nothing else is a little slow even for her.

It's not as if things jump to full throttle. First it's basically just horizontal making out, on the sofa in the living room, then Bellamy's bed. It's a lot more comfortable than the supply closet, and more temperature controlled than the back of the diner. Things are still progressing at a fairly slow pace. They don't even make it past second base until mid-August, when Kane goes away for the weekend. Clarke isn't sure she's really mastered the art of the blow job, but Bellamy is far from complaining.

Having a private place to be together has definitely brought about a distinct change in their relationship, something that makes Clarke feel closer to Bellamy than she had before. He's more open, even talked about Octavia a couple times, telling Clarke stories about how she was a quiet baby who grew into a very, very loud toddler.

“She's really allergic to dust and mold,” Bellamy tells her. “And we never lived anywhere nice enough not to have it. You know, not like this place,” he gestures around. Kane's house isn't overly showy or large, but it's still big for a man who'd previously lived alone. There's three bedrooms, Kane's, Bellamy's, and a guest room, and all the furniture is a heavy, solid wood. On Thursdays, a woman comes in to clean the place from top to bottom. Bellamy makes it clear that he's never lived anywhere like it. But it isn't “fancy” like Clarke's house, and he seems to appreciate that. There's money in it, but it's subtle.

“She was sick a lot, cried all the time. I could only get her to calm down by telling stories, over and over and over again. I think a memorized every Greek myth there is.” He's making omelettes and Clarke is quietly amused that even outside the diner, she's sitting at a counter while he prepares food. It seems like they have a bit of a habit. She keeps her mouth shut though. She's found it's best to let Bellamy talk when he's on a roll. It's like he forgets that someone's listening and when he's reminded he becomes self conscious again.

“She was always all extremes. Wildly happy or throwing a temper tantrum. She hated things or she loved them. There were never any in betweens.” Clarke notices that he talks about Octavia like she's dead, even though she knows she's not. She's in Chicago, he says, or the suburbs around it, with her new parents and her new life, and it's clear he's trying to distance himself from all that as much as possible. There's absolutely nothing he can do about it. He's a minor and, even if he wasn't, Octavia's been legally adopted. Clarke still has no idea what happened to their mom, but his willingness to talk about Octavia, which is clearly a painful subject, she knows means he's trying, working up to the rest of it. It's clearly not a happy story.

“Tomatoes, mushrooms, spinach, onion, cheese,” Bellamy interrupts her thought process. “Which ones do you want?”

Clarke blinks, and the corners of his mouth are still a little downturned, the leftovers of talking about his sister who he can't see, but his voice is normal.

“Everything. Seriously, you still have to ask?” Clarke teases.

“Hey,” he points his spatula at her, “I haven't trusted your taste in food since you told me you don't like black olives.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him, “You're one to talk! You don't eat arugula! Arugula is the best part of salad!”

Bellamy's nose scrunches up. “It's bitter!”

“Then it's just like you, it should be a perfect match.” Clarke ducks the olive he throws at her face.

“You're cleaning that up,” Bellamy grumbles, but the corners of his mouth aren't downturned anymore, so Clarke counts it as a win.

“Only because you cooked,” she tells him.

* * *

 

They go to the mountains for Bellamy's seventeenth birthday, which falls on a Friday. It's not a long drive, maybe forty five minutes, and the plan is to do a short hike (Clarke's not the biggest fan of exercise outside in August) and have a picnic at a lookout point with a good view, maybe do an extra half mile to see a waterfall. Clarke's used to more expensive, formal birthday events, but she knows that's absolutely not Bellamy. Besides, she doesn't want to do anything that would cost much money, since he'd never let her pay for it. It's his birthday, she just wants him to be relaxed and happy.

It's a hot day and Clarke is sweating bullets in no time. She really hates outdoor sports, but Bellamy's never had a lot of time for things like recreational hiking and he keeps excitedly pointing out plants along the side of the trail and spouting off facts about them.

“Since when are you into plant life?” Clarke pants, hoping he doesn't realize how winded she really is after only fifteen minutes.

“I'm not,” Bellamy shrugs. “But I read everything.”

She knows that, sort of. He doesn't have a book collection, but she's noticed the revolving pile of library books he keeps in his backpack or on his bedside table. She'd just thought they were mostly all history books or novels. She raises her eyebrows at him in question, mostly because they've hit a steeper hill and she's not sure she can get a dignified question out.

“I read a book about local flora last month,” he answers her silent question. “I checked it out for bio class back in March and it was interesting, so I went back for it when I had time.”

They've reached a temporary flat part of the path and a reprieve for her lungs. “You like to learn more than anyone I've ever met.”

“I missed a year and half of school,” Bellamy says, “and I was able to make up some of it, but,” he shrugs, “obviously not all of it. I hated feeling stupid and behind everyone else. I don't want to feel that way ever again.”

Clarke blinks after where he's picking his way up the path, wondering if that's something she should comment on. She's never had her access to education restricted, never thought about what that might be like. Being around Bellamy is a learning experience, a constant challenge to the things she's taken for granted her whole life. She appreciates it, but it certainly isn't always easy.

They make it to the waterfall just after lunch (which were sandwiches Clarke had picked up from Panera because her cooking skills are atrocious) and she quietly swears to herself that she's not hiking again for at least a year because it probably qualifies as a form of torture. Bellamy's clearly enjoying himself, though. Clarke knows Bellamy is a physical person, he gets his anger out on a punching bag and he seems to find some sort of peace from moving and sweating (certainly not something they have in common), so while she's winded, she's also more than a little pleased with herself. It's probably the least she can do after she ruined her own birthday and everything Bellamy had planned.

It had been the plan to be back in town by dinner, but by the time they get back down to the car (Clarke had finally given up and insisted on a slower pace with more breaks), it's starting to get dark. She's about to get into the car when Bellamy's fingers brush her wrist.

“Clarke, look.” He tilts his chin to the sky. They're out of town, away from the city lights, and above them the milky way stretches out, visible here. Clarke had forgotten what a sky full of stars looks like. She feels herself getting lost in them.

“Come on,” Bellamy opens the car door, but instead of getting in, he climbs up onto the seat and then onto the roof of the car. “We have time, right?”

It's not really part of the plan, but Clarke follows him up anyway. Abby's working a double, so there's no one at home to miss her; Kane is on a business trip, so there's no one to miss him. They lie down, side by side and close because there's not a lot of room on top of the car, their legs dangling over the front and onto the windshield. The darker it gets, the more stars seem to appear in the sky, fading slowly into focus. Bellamy's voice breaks the silence, a low rumble next to her in the dark.

“When I was little, we lived in a studio apartment with a red front door. It was all faded and the paint would peel off and stick to your hands, but it was the only color on the block, and it felt special. I think that was my favorite thing about the place, the color. It had good light too, big windows. You couldn't sleep in at all because the light would be so bright and Mom never bothered to buy curtains. I didn't mind because I've always liked mornings and that light made outside look beautiful, even if it was mostly concrete.”

Clarke slides her fingers between his, but doesn't say anything at all. And things are different between them now, but it feels like that first night- a time for secrets.

“If it was warm, she'd make me sit out on the fire escape at night when she... worked.” Bellamy's voice goes a little rough, tentative words spoken into darkness. He's never said a word about his mother and Clarke's only heard the very beginning and she's already starting to understand why.

“She'd turn off all the lights, like that would make it better, if I couldn't really see in. Like she thought that was protecting me from something. There was a streetlight by the fire escape, and she wanted me distracted, so she'd give me this book; it had the cover and the first few pages torn off, so I didn't know what it was called for years. I couldn't even read it, at first. The words were too big and it didn't read like anybody talked, but it was what I had and it was better than thinking about what was happening inside.

“When it was cold, she'd put me in the closet. She tried to make it like a game, rules disguised as challenges. I'd close my eyes and try to think so loud I couldn't hear them. I was supposed to be quiet because they weren't supposed to know I was there. Those nights were worse. I couldn't have a light, so I couldn't read. I'd try to remember everything I'd learned at school that day, repeat facts and figures and dates in my head. It never really helped.” He goes quiet, his breathing deep and controlled, like he's trying not to cry.

Clarke doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if she should say anything. In lieu of words, she turns her face towards him, no longer looking at the stars and presses her cheek into his shoulder. She can just make out his profile, gentle, strong lines in the starlight. She sees when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing, then opens his mouth to continue.

“I never knew my dad, but she hated me because of him, because I look like him. I never got that. All mom's boyfriends were shitty. I didn't even know if my dad was a boyfriend or a client, sometimes it wasn't clear if there was a difference. I don't know what he did to her to make her hate him like that, but I always saw it when she looked at me. She... she never said it, but I could tell.

“Then she got pregnant with Octavia and I'd never seen her so happy or so scared. She would mutter about how she was going to do things right this time and I knew she thought she'd gotten me wrong. Octavia was what was important. It was okay, though, because she changed, got clean, started remembering to buy groceries. Her being pregnant knocked some sense into her, I guess. She really loved Octavia. She was the most precious thing in the world to my mom, but even so she couldn't take care of her. The day she was born, she put her in my arms and said 'your sister, your responsibility.' Two weeks later she was using again.”

The picture that he's painting is becoming clearer and clearer, slotting into her knowledge of him, of who he is. Clarke feels like crying, but she's not sure she deserves that release when he's still holding it together, when he's been holding himself together despite his childhood all these years.

“After she had O, we moved out to this trailer on the edge of town. It was better. It had three rooms and O and I had one to ourselves. We had an actual yard to play in and Octavia loved the grass and the deer that would sometimes come out of the woods, but her favorites were the butterflies. The walls weren't soundproof, but it was better than being in the closet and I'd tell Octavia stories to keep her distracted.

“Octavia's dad had money. I think that's how my mom got involved with him in the first place. She really thought he might take her out of there, but he was the worst one. Bad temper, quick fists. He didn't discriminate on who or what he was hitting, either.

“They argued all the time. He'd get jealous, wanting her to stop working, wanting her to stop seeing anybody else, but he never gave her money so she could. He'd come over and they'd yell and break things and I just tried to keep us out of the way. Sometimes I think I should've done something, tried to stop him. I never tried. If I was out there, with them, I couldn't be with Octavia and then she'd cry and cry and that would get his attention.” He lets out a shuddering breath and she can't tell in the low light, but she thinks he might be crying now.

“I remember that it got really quiet, right before the gunshot. They were yelling and yelling for what felt like hours and then it just went so quiet. It was just for a second, but I remember it scared me before the gun even went off.

“By the time I got out to the main room he'd gone, but her blood... It was everywhere, pooling on the floor. I remember I just stood there. It didn't look real, all that blood. I couldn't believe it was real. They took her to the hospital, but she was already dead. She was dead before they got there. And I was sitting in a police car with Octavia and she just kept asking when Mommy was going to come home. She didn't stop asking about her until she got adopted.”

He falls silent for several long moments. “It's not... really a story that people want to hear.”

Bellamy turns his head and meets her eyes. It's dark, so she can't see the details of him, but he's close and there's enough light to make him out. His hand is in hers and his eyes are soft, liquid, and for the first time since she met him, Clarke sees him with all his walls down, stripped down to just him, a lonely boy with some much love in him he can barely contain it. He is raw, wide open, all unfinished edges and bleeding wounds exposed. She's never wanted to protect something so much in her life. She knows she's only sixteen, but if love is something stronger, something more than she feels for Bellamy, then she's pretty sure love will destroy her.

She tries to roll closer, curl into his arms and give him some comfort, but the roof makes an ominous noise and Bellamy lets out a watery laugh, steadying her with a hand.

“We should get back,” he says, voice quiet, but clear in the silence of the night. Clarke can only nod, clambering down from the roof of the car and into the driver's seat.

They're halfway back to town when she manages to voice it. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

The thought of leaving him after he'd poured out his soul and going home to her empty house and lying in the dark thinking about it where she can't reach out and touch his skin, run her fingers through his curls, know he's there and real and survived it all, is unbearable.

Bellamy is looking at her from the passengers seat, but she doesn't dare turn her head.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

It's the first time she's ever stayed over, and it's different circumstances than she'd imagined would lead her to Bellamy's bed. This means more to her anyway; Bellamy's honesty and trust and vulnerability means everything. She curls around him that night, even though she's much smaller than him, wanting nothing more than to be close, as close as she can get, close enough that he can forget, if only for a moment, the world outside the two of them.

* * *

 

Two weeks before school starts, Bellamy gets arrested. Clarke doesn't find out about it until he calls her, after being bailed out by Kane. She has to wait two whole hours before Kane's gone back into work and she can drive over to the house and get the full story.

Bellamy's got a black eye and a bruise on his jaw and swollen knuckles. He's clearly still agitated when he opens the door, but Clarke's too focused on the bruises marring his skin to care. She goes after his hand first, forcing him into the bathroom where she can get a good look at the wound and clean it properly.

“Didn't they even take you to the hospital?” She asks, even though what she really wants to know is what _happened_.

“It wasn't deemed serious enough,” Bellamy grits out as she cleans the blood from his knuckles.

“Your hand could be broken!”

“It's not.”

“You don't know that,” she counters.

“I'm fine, Clarke.” He stands up, suddenly, shaking her off. He paces up and down the bathroom, frowning fiercely. When it becomes apparent he isn't going to say anything, she speaks up.

“Bell, what happened?”

He lets outs a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and snarl. “Dax is what fucking happened.”

“That's not an explanation.”

“Sterling is missing,” he spits out. He's not just angry, Clarke realizes, suddenly. He's distressed.

“What? Since when?” Clarke hadn't known him well, but it still makes her stomach drop.

“Two days ago. Have to be missing forty eight hours before the police will take the report.” Bellamy runs his uninjured hand through his hair, as if it wasn't already a mess.

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Dax?” For all of Bellamy's storytelling skills, this is like pulling teeth.

“He knows what happened to him. I know he does. Dax told the police that Sterling told him he was going to go be with his mom. He never would have done that. Sterling was terrified of Dax. And besides, Sterling was all talk. He was just a scared kid. People are buying it because he believed so blindly in his mom, but he wouldn't have left.”

“And you think...” Clarke's having a hard time following.

The anger is back in Bellamy's eyes. “Dax did something to him. That kid's a fucking psychopath, Clarke. And he knew I thought so, too. He was just... smirking at me, talking about how Sterling ran home to mommy and he knew I didn't buy a word. I just... lost it.”

“You attacked him?” And that's Bellamy, Clarke thinks, sad, all impulsive and full of righteous anger. It won't matter if Dax goaded him into it, Bellamy started the fight.

“He's going to get away with it!” Bellamy snaps. “Whatever he did to Sterling, no one's going to care because he's just some foster kid. No one's going to look for him. They'll check with his mom and when they don't find him there they'll just write him off as a runaway. Maybe that's why he did it. Maybe it was just because he could get away with it.”

“Hey,” She touches his arm, tentative, “did you tell all this to the cops?”

Bellamy snorts. “I don't exactly have the best relationship with them at the moment.”

“Still.”

“They don't care. No one's going to care.” He sounds tired now, sad. The truth is, he's probably right. No one's going to make a fuss about a missing foster kid. Particularly not one with a history of threatening to run away.

“How much trouble are you in?” she asks, because she doesn't know what else to do.

Bellamy shrugs. “Kane said something about taking care of it. Might do some community service or something.” He looks up at her then, something like regret in his eyes. “Clarke, your mom was there.”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“For therapy. She saw all of it and I... I know you wanted to come clean sometime soon, since you've been getting on a bit better, but... I don't think she'll ever be okay with me.” Nearly one year to the day she met him, Bellamy Blake becomes a secret she has no intention of ever telling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it's been sooo long. I know. I outlined this chapter and then I stared at it in horror because I knew it was going to be long. I didn't expect it to be quite this long, but here we are. Anyway, thank so much to Paige for being my beta for this chapter! I usually don't have people beta my work because I'm kind of lazy, but this is a complicated fic and Paige is lovely. 
> 
> I hope the new chapter was worth the wait!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi loves,  
> I've been waffling a bit on which of my in progress drafts to work on next, but I've finally settled on this one. This is an idea that I've been bouncing around for a while and I've messed with this draft a few times and left it and come back to it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> p.s. to those of you who I still owe drabbles, I promise I haven't forgotten them, I've just had a ton of writer's block recently, but they are coming! I'm sorry I'm such a mess!


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